


Reach of Destiny

by RuthieBelle (RuthieGreen), RuthieGreen



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 103,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuthieGreen/pseuds/RuthieBelle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuthieGreen/pseuds/RuthieGreen
Summary: Reach of Destiny - By FallenBelle and RuthieGreenA politician, a reporter and a coroner all walk into a bar and witness an awful death…In Roaring Twenties Toronto, prohibition is in full swing but someone has taken to poisoning bootleg booze. The new Mayor’s friend is dead in a posh speakeasy and Detective William Murdoch, a war veteran and nearly broken man, is charged with solving the high-profile crimes without getting him or his boss fired in the process.  To do that he has to work with the newly-minted City Coroner, Dr. Julia Ogden, who isn't sure she wants the job, but has her own ideas about conducting a proper police inquiry. Meanwhile, the bodies are piling up, and love, death, betrayal and secrets beleaguer William and Julia, as they navigate corruption, their working relationship, and a killing spree (or two.)
Relationships: William Murdoch/Julia Ogden
Comments: 9
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Authors’ Note: We don’t own MM -- that honour goes to Maureen Jennings and the show writers, to whom we owe a great debt for bringing us these wonderful characters to play with. But if Miss Jennings were to allow series novels based on the show, we’d like to be asked to write them! (Even if it took us more than a year to write this one!)**

**The full-length novel you are about to read is an A/U set in 1922. We kept some of the back story (not all!) and moved them up almost 30 years -- instead of 1893 (2 years before the TVshow opens) William and Julia meet in 1922. We bent them a bit, but we promise we did not break them…**

**Instead of the constabulary as it was in 1922 we kept the show’s fiction of individual station houses and detectives in each one (See Maureen Jennings’ book,** **_Let Darkness Bury the Dead_ ** **, for a more accurate depiction of post-WW1 constabulary.) We did, however, weave in many historical people, events and references to Toronto and its environs of 1922.**

**We will post the 45-chapter novel in chapter ‘chunks’ and we hope you read and enjoy the story. Reviews, conversation, Kudos, are welcome!**

**CHAPTER ONE**

**9:15 pm, Friday, June 23rd, 1922**

**_The Crown Club_ ** **, Toronto**

Dead was dead. 

The location of the death never mattered much to him. He expected a body or he would not have been sent here in the first place. 

Death was his  _ job _ after all. 

And it was about the only thing which made him feel alive anymore. 

_ “Detective Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary!”  _

His loud announcement and battered police badge opened a hole through the crowd of smartly dressed people large enough for him and his superior, Inspector Thomas Brackenreid, to shoulder their way into an elaborately paneled lounge. His feet sank into thick maroon carpeting which absorbed the hubbub from outside while his nose informed him of overtones of expensive tobacco lingering in the warm air. The corpse, whose upper body and balding pate were splayed face down across a polished mahogany table, was prosaic enough as crime scenes went, even in such posh surroundings. 

...Yet, the rest of what he beheld was frankly disconcerting: A woman appeared to be kissing the dead man’s cheek, violating  _ his  _ crime scene. Was she his wife? A lover? Stealing his wallet? Behind her was another young couple, gaping at the proceedings.

“Madam, please! I must insist you move away this instant!” His sharp command produced no reaction from the woman, who continued with her caressing of the corpse. He was about to grab her naked wrist, when beside him he heard Brackenreid chuckle. 

“Meet our new city coroner, Dr. Ogden.” 

The woman smiled. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. I haven’t murdered my date for being boring in quite some time.”

He did a double take. A Dr.  _ Lionel _ Ogden, a habitually imperious and taciturn man, did occasional rotations as coroner, and he wondered if there was any relation. The woman calmly finished what she was doing, pushing herself away from the table with long fingers at the end of firm arms, then fixed her blue eyes on his as she gracefully straightened up. His attention traveled the length of her body before he caught himself and forced his awareness back to her words.

“Dr. Julia Ogden.” She placed her hands on slim hips, and a curve on her lip told him she thought she knew exactly what he’d been thinking about…

_Good Lord, give me strength._ _Not another new coroner._

“May I introduce the late Mr. Conrad Landswell, member of the Crown Club?” Dr. Ogden cocked her head. “No smell of bitter almonds around his mouth.” 

He had no trouble detecting a mild mocking behind her smile. He dug out his notebook and wrote:  _ No cyanide used as poison. _ She turned, gesturing to the couple standing behind her. “And this is my sister, Miss Ruby Ogden and her escort, Mr. Clifford Blackburn.”

Murdoch tipped his homburg out of polite habit and wrote the names down, but Brackenreid pushed by and made sure he shook hands with Blackburn, a man of medium build with dark brown hair who sported a black-tie dinner suit. Murdoch vaguely remembered Clifford Blackburn as one of the men who ran for city control board in the last election -- and lost. He tried to recall if Blackburn’s election platform was decidedly pro- or anti- prohibition, considering all of them were in what amounted to a high-end speakeasy. Ruby Ogden, whom he guessed to be in her early twenties, was petite, dressed in a red gown whose hem skimmed just below her calves. More shocking was her light blonde hair, cut in a smooth, extremely short bob and crowned by a crimson silk scarf. If Dr. Ogden looked to be a cool pagan goddess in a star-sapphire colour dress, her sister Ruby was a literal firebrand.

Behind the pair was an entire wall of shelving, floor to ceiling, full of bottles of wine and spirits -- hundreds of them. Each member here had a separate ‘cellar’ – an ornate cubby with a decorative metal grille, lock & key. Since going officially “bone dry” last year, Ontario never lacked for alcohol, if you knew how to exploit the loopholes and where to look. 

Out of nowhere, he experienced a sudden, visceral, urge to drink, his mouth involuntarily watering. The violent sensations -- strong as a gut punch -- nearly staggered him. He immediately covered up by tracing a symbolic cross over his upper body, unmindful of the disapproving stares it usually brought his way -- just one of the long list of things he no longer gave a damn about. 

Brackenreid gave him a sour look before assessing their surroundings more closely. “Lots of high-end slosh served in the establishment,” his ginger mustache twitching. “Ah! Cognac.” Brackenreid snuck a look over his shoulder then flipped over a snifter to splash a little of the amber liquid in the glass and raise it. His eyes were closed and the crystal rim was just at his lips when  _ she _ spoke…

“I wouldn't do that, Inspector. I think that is what killed him.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

“Up to you, of course…” Dr. Ogden deadpanned. 

Brackenreid sputtered, slamming the glass back down and wiping his brow. “Bloody Hell!”

“Bloody Hell indeed, it’s a fine bottle,” Dr. Ogden agreed, then asked in the same mock-detached tone, “From Yorkshire, are we?” Another smirk. “I had a residency at Sheffield Royal Hospital during medical school.” 

“Why, that’s me’ hometown, Doctor.” Brackenreid recovered his embarrassment and smiled broadly, taking a new interest in the doctor. “I don’t suppose you got in any of the football matches while you were there?” 

“I’m an Owls fan all the way. Go The Wednesday!” she replied, a flippant grin directed to Brackenreid. 

Murdoch cleared his throat to get her and his boss back to business. “Any preliminary observations, Doctor?”

“Well, I  _ was  _ here when he keeled over. I can tell you the time of death was eight forty-five. He had been drinking from his own bottle,” she pointed to the one the inspector nearly sampled, “which I will need packaged up and sent to the morgue. I suspect poison, reserving the outside possibility he died of an unexpected seizure or heart malady.”

She stood up abruptly from her observations, eyes on the doorway. “The morgue attendants are here, therefore I must go organize them. Toodle pip!” 

Inspector Brackenreid watched the sway of her retreating hips  before realizing that he was as well . “I like her, Murdoch. She’s got spunk.” 

He ignored that. “Sir?” he said through his teeth, “This is hardly our jurisdiction. What are we doing here? What are  _ you  _ doing here?” His boss showing up at a crime scene decked out in his best summer suit meant this was not a run-of-the-mill investigation.

“It was Blackburn who called us in. Landswell there is,” Brackenreid moved his walking stick in the corpse’s direction, “well, _was_ a friend of our new mayor of Toronto, Charles A. Maguire, and the Control Board is up in arms about the rash of alcohol-related deaths.”

“That’s never bothered them before.” 

“Seems one of the alkies dropped dead on Alderman Birdsall’s doorstep earlier tonight and the shite has hit the fan. Particularly now one of their own,” another thrust of the stick towards Landswell, “appears to have succumbed. And in a place like this!” 

Murdoch’s lips folded in displeasure. He dropped his voice lower. “Sir. Are we here to solve it or cover it up?” 

Brackenreid’s shoulders hunched. “We are to solve this one, swiftly and discreetly. Station House Four got the call because of our past success with high-profile cases.”

“It would not have anything to do with your own political inclinations, sir?” 

“At ease, Murdoch!” Having a Catholic detective in his unit -- even one who was responsible for Station Four’s high success rate -- was a problem for Brackenreid’s ambitions. His colour rose with his voice. “That has nothing to do with it. Now, let me get Mr. Blackburn and his lovely companion out of your way so you and Dr. Ogden can do what you are paid for.” Brackenreid walked forward a pace, then came back to whisper: “And, Murdoch -- try not to piss this coroner off like you did the last one.”

He didn’t hold out much hope as this particular young Dr. Ogden appeared to be a hedonist; he could not imagine how she got the position of city coroner let alone be able to keep it. 

Unfortunately handling this death with ‘discretion' meant he was seriously under-manned. Tonight, he had only a mis-matched pair of constables: Constable first class George Crabtree, a war veteran a decade younger than himself with a bright future in law enforcement if he could edit his flights of fancy, and newly hired Constable third class Henry Higgins, at eighteen painfully young and invested with the arrogance of youth. He motioned them over.

“Gentlemen. We need to know who was here tonight and who had access to poison our victim’s food or beverage, since that is the coroner’s initial evaluation for cause of death.”

“Who’s the big timer in such a swanky joint as this?” Higgins pointed a thumb over his shoulder. 

“The victim’s name is Mr. Conrad Landswell. Constable Higgins, please get the names of all the staff members from the manager. I need to know who was working tonight, and who worked which shifts all week. There must be a list somewhere -- get it. Get a list of all deliveries or non-employee workmen who came and went for the last week.” He saw Higgins struggle with his notebook and pencil to write it all down, so he slowed his delivery to match Higgins’ penmanship. No point in giving orders if they were not properly received. “The manager is a Mr. Hedson. He’s the tall gentleman over by the entrance.” He pointed to a harried-looking man with old fashioned sideburns, beard and mustache who was clutching a large ring of keys. 

“You mean the whiskbroom over there? You want me to get the low down on any hinky people he’s been eyeing?” 

“No, not only suspicious persons, constable. All staff -- who worked which shifts, and names of delivery persons, strangers etcetera,” he repeated. “It will take a while. Don’t rush. Copy it all down, exactly. And don’t take no for an answer, understood?” Higgins’ eyes widened, but he trotted off with his notepad and pencil at the ready. Murdoch hoped it was a good start.

Crabtree watched Higgins’ progress with a thoughtful gaze. “Sir. What do you think?”

“That Mr. Hedson may benefit from a translator.”

“A...about the case, I mean,” Crabtree grinned. “This one makes six bodies and it is still early on a Friday night. Do you think it is another bootlegged alcohol death?”

“We shall see. I suppose it is possible our victim voluntarily substituted a low-end rot gut for the cognac, but let us keep all possibilities open, including this was targeted and intentional. To that end, Crabtree, obtain a guest list for this evening for interviews.” 

“I’ve already started, but I...I hate to tell you, several patrons already fled.” Crabtree was apologetic, his high forehead wrinkled with concern. “No one knew anything was amiss at first, but when we arrived...well, they got nervous a...and snuck out.”

He nodded. “I assumed that was the case. The Inspector is taking statements from Miss Ogden and Mr. Blackburn, who, along with our new coroner, apparently actually witnessed the death. And the other club members and guests?”

“Nothing much. Mr. Landswell was a regular member, usually drank alone, no particular friends, although he was known to try and scrape up business prospects for his electrical contracting firm. He was a sort of a glad-hander.” Crabtree flipped his notebook open. “Here is a list of guests I have been working from. I...I saved these two gentlemen for you because they might have pertinent information to add.” Crabtree passed a sheet of notepaper over, pointing to two circled names. “Both of them say they knew Mr. Landswell and saw him come in and open the lock on his private liquor cabinet. They were present all evening and are waiting for you in the cigar room.”

“Did Mr. Landswell ever share from his liquor cabinet?” He pointed to the rows of locked cubbies containing alcohol along the back wall.

“No, sir. I’m told he hoarded his own stock.”

He scanned the list of names, thinking Landswell’s tight-fisted nature was a good thing or there’d be more bodies here tonight. “Dr. Ogden requires the bottle he drank from. Please collect it, take fingerprints from the whole lot, and then send the entire contents of his cabinet along to the morgue, will you?”

“Sir.”

“I will start interviewing the remaining guests. When Higgins is done with the manager over there, we will have to extract a member and guest list out of him as well.” Murdoch and his constable turned to look at Higgins and Mr. Hedson wrangling over the employee list, with Mr. Hedson’s face getting redder and his eyes rounder by the minute. 

Crabtree let out a conspiratorial snicker. “Mr. Hedson’s not having a very good night, is he sir?”

Murdoch raised one eyebrow. “Better than Mr. Landswell.” 

*********

Out of the corner of her eye, Julia spied her sister examining Mr. Landswell’s form on the gurney. She marched over and flicked the white sheet back over the body, then pointed to where she wanted Ruby to wait -- across the room. Ruby ignored her, removing a small compact from her Mandalian mesh purse for a quick primp. 

Some things never change _ , _ Julia thought, feeling a familiar frustration surface. As the elder sister, Julia was supposed to protect and guide her younger sibling in social deportment. However, since childhood, Ruby was generally quite immune to taking direction. More galling, Ruby’s gift for blithely flaunting convention without the slightest ripple of public censure made her jealous. 

“Jules, your new job is quite disagreeable,” her sister pronounced. “And it is quite a lot of work.”

“Ha! This from a person who mucks around in the underbelly of Society, all for a few column inches in the papers,” Julia shot back. She abhorred giving Ruby the satisfaction of agreeing about the quantity of work on her plate. Too many corpses and too little time... 

Ruby patted her hair and clasped her hands together, trying to look prim. Julia thought the red fingernail varnish and lip rouge spoiled the effect. 

“I am a writer. A journalist. That is  _ my  _ job. Ernest Hemingway advises that to write well, one must write the truth,” her sister offered as an excuse. “I think I shall follow his example and turn this misadventure into an article.” Ruby proceeded to stick her tongue out.

Julia nearly stamped her foot. “Mr. Hemingway is not known for writing about murders or crime in the _ Star.  _ Even so, you cannot have any special privilege from me about this case. I am still on probation.” She tried glaring at her sister, then found an insistent giggle bubbling up. It took all her might not to laugh out loud, as absurd as it was, the two of them, standing off over a corpse. 

Ruby was less successful in stifling herself, much to Julia’s disapproval. They were still locked in sisterly opposition when the morgue attendants approached to remove Mr. Landswell. Julia shushed her sister, but Ruby kept teasing. “I still think your new position is unsavoury. After nursing in the Great War, I thought you were sick of the dead, and yet here you are…” She waved at the sheet-covered stretcher as the morgue attendants shifted it and its burden down the stairs. “Why ever did you take this on?”

“First,  _ this _ is nothing like what I saw and did overseas. Second, it is vital for we women to have positions of prominence in Society, particularly since achieving the vote, and I will be making an important contribution as City Coroner.” Julia’s answer was sharper than she intended. Only her sister could get under her skin so quickly -- silly to enraged in the blink of an eye. It was exhausting. _Ruby, was exhausting_. “In my spare time, I will be exploring options for establishing a practice here. If I  _ have _ any free time, that is.” She muttered this last part. “In the meantime, I will be making reports of my findings to the detective.” 

“Hmmm. Those constables...how about that detective? He’s just the cat’s meow.” Ruby licked her lips, nodding towards the man questioning the club’s guests.

Julia choked. Leave it to Ruby to notice the handsome police officer or the men in uniform -- sometimes her sister was such a  cliché . “Ruby! He is a colleague I just met. We are working a crime scene, not socializing at a tea dance.”

“Considering I cannot get you  _ to _ a dance hall, this will have to do,” her sister gibed. “Where else will you find such a dashing man?”

“And a married one if his ring finger is any indication.” 

“Oh, you noticed, did you? So you  _ were _ looking.”

Julia counted herself incapable of that kind of embarrassment but... maybe she  _ had _ glanced in the detective’s direction once, or twice, and she wasn’t the only female in the room who noticed. He was attractive and she wasn’t  _ dead _ . “I came out with you tonight because you said it was going to be a few laughs. Come relax, you said. Meet new people, you said. Have fun, you said. But, instead of a few laughs, I have yet again another corpse to dissect and you’d like me to entangle myself with a police officer, of all things!” 

“Which is sort of the point, Jules. It’s no fun if there is no challenge. Look at him, all dour and brown-study serious. He needs a woman’s… touch... to get that certain smile on his face.” 

Julia’s face warmed. Her sister was impossible. “For Heaven's sake, Ruby! He’s Catholic to boot. All that crossing or whatever it is. Did you notice that too?” 

She sent an angry glare at her sister, then took another, even closer look at the detective -- curiosity overcoming her reluctance. She’d been warned about Detective Murdoch by her dear friend Dr. Michelle McDaniels: he was an outstanding cop with a generally low opinion of the coroner’s office, demanding of the individual pathologists, and possessed of an annoying tendency to second-guess results. Mick went on to judge him to be more than competent in the areas of chemistry, physics and electrical engineering, probably capable of performing a primitive autopsy of pressed. Julia thought the detective sounded positively boring. 

_ Detective Murdoch lobbied for a permanent city coroner. _ I suppose he’s indirectly responsible for getting me this position _ ,  _ she reminded herself. I bet he never imagined a woman permanently in the job, did he? 

_ But a liaison with him? He reminds me of an officious butler in one of the great English houses. What was Ruby thinking?  _

…. Yet, she could not deny there was a most intriguing aspect to the man. He was certainly good-looking -- if one could get past his dark-browed glower which Ruby so helpfully pointed out. Perhaps away from work he was more congenial? She snuck another look. She put him in his early thirties, clean-shaven, tanned from the out of doors with pleasingly smooth facial planes under high cheekbones. He was well-dressed, and well-groomed, down to buffed fingernails -- rather more polished than the average copper. Underneath that dark suit she could imagine his muscles flexing, already noticing how his trousers covered his haunches. Most striking was a heavy fringe of lashes over coffee brown eyes. 

And she  _ loved _ coffee…

Ruby poked her in the ribs. “I bet you an extra week at the lake house -- no, I will spend two extra weeks with Father, if you bed Detective Murdoch by Dominion Day.”

Julia thought about how much she’d like to avoid her duty call to Father, sliding her gaze towards Detective Murdoch and back to her sister. She already knew the coroner’s office was going to be temporary. What did she have to lose? 

“All right, Ruby. You're on!”

***********

Satisfied Crabtree and Higgins were making progress with Mr. Hedson, Murdoch walked outside in order to take in the fresh air, surprised to find Brackenreid and Dr. Ogden on the sidewalk. She should have left with the morgue wagon. Alongside the building, Miss Ruby Ogden lingered with a cigarette underneath the entrance canopy; Mr. Blackburn nowhere in sight. He sighed inwardly, walking forward to join his boss, who appeared inordinately charmed by the new coroner. 

“Enjoying a fine dram in the club, were you, Doctor?” Brackenreid asked her with a smile. 

“I was  _ trying _ to, gentlemen.” She replied, put her foot on a light post and hiked up her skirt to pull a flask out of her garter. Taking a swig, she handed it to Brackenreid who gladly took her up on her offer. 

Murdoch’s unruly eye caught the curve of her upper thigh and the lace tops of her stockings all the way to the deep decolletage in the front and the deep V in the back of her dress and how nicely the handkerchief hem floated below her knees. Which was, he assumed, the whole point of the exercise. His fingers twitched towards the flask when she offered him a pull of his own.

He declined, watching her hands again as she tucked it back away and slid the blue silk back down her long legs. _Remaining clear-headed_ _is going to be a necessity_. He took his boss aside to share preliminary reports. “Sir, what did you learn from Mr. Blackburn and Miss Ogden?”

“Nothing good. Mr. Blackburn claims it was his first time at the club, escorting his recent companion, Miss Ruby Ogden, who, by the way, says she is a reporter for the Toronto  _ Star _ .” Brackenreid looked positively dyspeptic. “Keeping a politician’s and a reporter’s mouth shut about this nasty business will not be easy. You’d better watch out there.”

“Sir. We will also have to make sure Dr. Ogden does not feed information to her sister.”

“Agreed. Miss Ogden and Mr. Blackburn concur Mr. Landswell expired about a quarter to nine o’clock, just after they arrived. It was Miss Ruby who invited her sister along, which is how our new city coroner was also Johnny-on-the-spot.” Brackenreid made a harsh sound in his throat. “This is a damned cock-up already.” 

_ A politician, a reporter and a coroner all walked into a bar and witnessed a death. _ ..It sounded to him like the start of one of Crabtree’s bad jokes. His discreet inquiry was just about blown to Hell already. “Sir. There is not much more we can do here right now. I will come back later and speak with the rest of the staff. In the morning we can take a better look at the victim’s house and finances.” He turned back to where the coroner was chatting with her sister. With Brackenreid at his elbow he approached her. “Dr. Ogden, I assume you’ll be starting the autopsy immediately?” 

“On the contrary. I’ll be escorting my sister to another party and from there, who knows? Our victim is going anywhere, is he? I’ll begin first thing tomorrow provided there isn’t anything else taking precedence,” she added with a wink and a smile as she turned on her heel. 

Brackenreid caught his eye as they both watched her leave. His boss shook his head. “Oi, I do believe you’ve met your match. She won’t be having any of your poppycock, will she?” Brackenreid thumped him on the back. “See you don’t scare her off.” 

Biting his tongue, Murdoch straightened his hat and walked to his beloved 1917 Indian motorcycle. There was a great deal of work ahead therefore a dull ache was asserting itself behind his eyes just to spite him. He considered Dr. Ogden. There was a certain patrician cast to her face and that imperious manner -- but the rest? He could not imagine the severe Lionel Ogden siring that particular, flighty offspring, let alone the effervescent Ruby. 

If Julia Ogden, whose ever daughter she was, was the new city coroner, Murdoch bet himself she was not going to last the week. 

# # # # # # # # # #

Even though she’d grown up with most of these people, gone to school with them, spent summers at various lake cottages together, Julia didn’t feel as though she belonged with them anymore and as a result, felt awkwardly out of place. 

But at least the booze flowed freely at Mimsy Boroughs’ party, and taking a glass of the abundant champagne, Julia moved through the rooms, looking for a quiet alcove or garden to gather her wits and indulge her powers of observation. Seeing what promised to be a secluded nook, she was disappointed to find a gaggle of young women, snorting lines of cocaine. 

“Julia Ogden! Come, join us!” Elizabeth Devons, a girl who had gone to school with Ruby, called out, but Julia wasn’t craving the allure of that high tonight, and politely declined, apologizing for intruding.

Meandering around, she finally spied the conservatory, and slipped inside, taking a seat to watch the party around her, to be a part of it, while not being fully involved. She sipped her glass, closed her eyes and savored the bubbly liquid, contemplating the events at the Crown Club.

_ Detective Murdoch _ . For all his propriety and erect bearing, she sensed a darkness beneath that placid exterior, attracting her all the more. She was willing to bet he’d seen action in the Great War, been changed from the man he’d been before and was hiding it under that stiff veneer. 

She recognized the change because she’d gone through it herself. Parties in England had been different because of that shared experience, but here, most of these young people were too far removed to have known what happened nearly four thousand miles away during the long war years or excruciatingly awful swath of destruction from influenza, and as a result, their lives remained unaltered  and  blissfully ignorant of the carnage. Their topics of conversation were even still the same!

Julia couldn’t relate. 

Laughing at her  _ ennui _ , she stood and drained her glass, quickly catching the eye of a waiter for a refill. Forcing a smile, she did her best to rejoin the party and the friends she’d known her whole life, even if they didn’t -- couldn’t -- really know her anymore. 

Walking back into the salon where the bulk of the crowd was, she looked for Ruby and their hostess, ready to give her excuses for an early departure. Ruby soon found her, her dilated pupils and excited demeanor along with the white residue around her nose told Julia that she’d also been enjoying the white powder.

“Juliaaaaa, you caaaaaan’t be leaving,” Ruby cajoled.

“Ruby, I’m tired, I have work in the morning, and….” 

“You’re no fun anymore. Not since you got back from England...or are you going to get in trouble just so you can meet Detective Murdoch again?” she giggled.

“Good night, Ruby. Give my regards to Mimsy, and wipe the cocaine from your nose. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she replied, accepting her wrap from a servant, and stepping outside, where a footman ushered her into a waiting taxi, sorry she had not taken her own motor car to the party.

Leaning her head back in the cab, she considered Ruby’s words. Ruby was wrong, she still wished to have fun, it’s just that her definition of the activity had changed as her thoughts turned to men…

Alas, the interesting ones were always taken. Detective Murdoch might be married, but she certainly wouldn’t mind a fling with him...what’s the harm? 

_ Besides, as soon as I have my license to practice medicine, for the first time in my whole life, I am going to be completely free!  _


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Saturday June 24th, 1922**

**Day Shift, Station House No. 4, 2 Wilton Street, Toronto**

Last night Murdoch had slept a few winks, insomnia being a regular state of affairs this was still unusual. He told himself the high-profile death he was now responsible for solving, on top of everything else, was the proximal cause.

To get relief, he exercised until the point of exhaustion in his Ontario Street cellar: lifting weights, doing pushups and riding his Ideal cycle on a stand he’d improvised until his housekeeper Mrs. Kitchen came down the stairs, making him ashamed of being so inconsiderate. He reassured her he was fine, got her settled back in her rooms and readied himself for bed, taking care not to wake any of his boarders. 

He finally drifted off into a fitful slumber, only to be jerked awake before dawn by an unsettling dream where he was trying to save a woman from drowning -- or maybe it was falling? -- but was unable to maintain his grip on her. Just when he thought he’d caught her, she slipped from his grasp, and woke up before seeing who it was...afraid of who it might be. 

It was just past 0600 hours when he walked into the station house to be greeted by news the other station houses had been more than happy to transfer their alcohol-related deaths to Station House 4. Last night the body count was six; this morning it was now eight.

He made a pot of coffee, a habit he acquired in the war to maintain alertness and to alleviate headaches -- he was going to need it. Settling behind his desk, he read the two newspapers he’d picked up on the way into the Station. The Inspector was bound to be unhappy with the headlines. 

He automatically refolded the pages and set the news rags aside on the corner of his desk. His eyes drifted up to the top of his green filing cabinet for closed cases where the photographic portrait of him and Liza, which used to occupy the desk corner, now rested. Even from this new distance, the two of them looked so young, so serious; him in his brand-new military uniform, her in a soft blouse and slim skirt, gazing at each other on a simple wooden bench.  _ The poor photographer had been so upset with the two of us because we could not keep from laughing and smiling. _ He unconsciously fiddled with his wedding ring, caught himself, then suppressed a great sigh. 

Getting down to work, he consulted his notes to begin a chart of all the victims who succumbed to alcohol poisoning since Friday. He filled out his entire blackboard with a chalk grid, listing the victims’ names on the “Y” axis -- six men and two women. Then across the top, the “X” axis indicated the date the body was found, location of the body, victim ages, occupations and address if known. He left several open areas for as yet unknown information. Even with such skimpy data, Murdoch could stand back and easily see the patterns, including that there was something about Conrad Landswell which didn’t quite match up with the other victims. The others were day laborers and chronic alcoholics, found dead in or near their abodes or close to where they likely purchased and drank the illegal alcohol. 

His theory of the case rested on a hunch. But hunches didn’t result in convictions, so he sat in his office, reviewing his notes and hoping to find a connection that stood out. In the bullpen, the day shift constables were filtering in, getting ready for inspection and report. Crabtree was already there, looking weary, yet typing up a report at a furious pace, the clacking grating on Murdoch's nerves and head. Constable Higgins was nowhere in sight. 

Shortly before 0800, the Inspector strode into his office, looking as vigorous as ever. “Do I want to know how long you’ve been here? Lie to me and tell me it’s only been a half hour.” The Inspector doffed his bowler hat and smoothed back thick red hair which so far had shunned any threads of grey.

Murdoch swallowed a retort, just sat his notepad down. “Promise sir, only a couple hours. I did go home and sleep.”

“Better than nothing I suppose,” Brackenreid muttered. “You were supposed to work on Landswell’s death. Why all these others?” He put his hands in his trouser pockets and gave the blackboard a once-over, slinging a hip onto Murdoch’s desk. 

“The other stations sent them along.” 

“Of course, the lazy sods did. Find anything interesting?”

Murdoch rose to stand by the board. “I am concerned there may be many more deaths, reported to the authorities, or not.” 

Brackenreid studied the chart thoughtfully. “More deaths, you say? That means a volume bootlegging business, does it not?”

“Yes, sir.” He knew his boss was going to share his worry.

“Which supposes money. Connections. Distribution. Logistics. If you follow the money you inevitably get to…”

“...Rocco Perri’s criminal organization. Yes, sir, we do. He is reputedly capable of bulk production, but--” 

Brackenreid cut him off with a huff. “‘Canada's Al Capone’! Wish he’d have stayed across the border with the rest of his  _ ‘Ey-Talian’ _ friends. We’ve never gotten the goods on him for rum-running, now we’d have to make a murder case stick. Eight of them, across four precincts!” 

Murdoch thought Brackenreid didn’t have to rub the difficulty in. “Sir. We don’t have all the deaths linked yet to a single source for poisoned alcohol. A back-yard still is possible and if so, that rules out Mr. Perri. It will take time.” He tried not to sound too impatient with the situation. “I am going to have Hodge and Worseley make sure all the notes and evidence from the other station houses get properly collected, particularly any used bottles of tainted alcohol. We will inquire into the victim’s lives for where they acquired the drink.”

“And find the common thread leading us back to Perri.” Brackenreid insisted, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t tip your hand to Perri. You know he’s dangerous as well as slick. We must have a clean case, especially with the Mayor watching over our shoulders…Murdoch, this could be a huge arrest, make a name for ourselves if we catch him...” 

He didn’t share his boss’ enthusiasm and started to protest.

Brackenreid shut him down with a slice of his hand through the air. “And make sure you keep the newspaper rabble from our door! Our official statement will be ‘no comment’, especially concerning Conrad Landswell and the unfortunate company he’s kept.” 

“Sir...It’s true they’re all poisoned alcohol-related, but in my view, Mr. Landswell isn’t like the others.” 

“You mean not like them in that these other blokes barely had a pot to piss in?” 

He winced. “I don’t know I would have put it like that sir, but yes.” He wasn’t ready to speculate out loud, not without more information. He reached for the newspapers, spreading the topmost out on his desk for his boss to read the lurid details in print. “Speaking of the press, you should see this.” The article, in addition to excoriating the constabulary, presented itself as part public caution about consuming illegal alcohol, and part gleeful indulgence in salacious gossip about the deceased. Murdoch was revolted by the voyeuristic thrill the paper was selling. At least the by-line in the  _ Star _ was not by Ruby Ogden -- at least not yet. 

“I find it hard to imagine how desperate someone needs to be to drink what they know has a good chance to kill them.” He paused, tongue going dry, remembering. “But I also find it hard not to sympathize.” 

None of that was a secret to Brackenreid, who scoffed, grabbing the newspapers in hand. “You were stronger. Remember that too. As for this trash in the papers...forget it.” 

Brackenreid stood up and looked at the assembled men through the glass partition separating the office from the rest of the station house. “Hodge!” he yelled through the open door. “Assemble the men for inspection. Higgins! Put the coffee on!”

He watched Brackenreid bustle off, obviously under pressure to keep the Landswell investigation in proportion. Murdoch checked his trench wristwatch against the clock in the bullpen, satisfied they agreed: eight o’clock sharp. He told himself he’d wait at least a few hours before presenting himself to the morgue to check on how far the new coroner had gotten, hoping for the best. 

# # # # # # #

**Saturday June 24th, 1922**

**Toronto City Morgue**

It was five minutes past ten when Detective Murdoch entered the morgue. Julia had been waiting impatiently for him to show up. 

“Doctor Ogden,” he greeted, walking down the steps into the autopsy bay, and removing his hat when he arrived opposite to her, keeping the autopsy table between them.  _ Sans _ the haberdashery, she appreciated how thick, dark and glossy his hair was, with a tinge of auburn at the short sideburns.

Julia took in the detective’s immaculate suit, thinking it was good timing -- or more likely experience -- on his part to arrive after the bits of blood and bone were no longer flying about. The corpse's chest was fully open, and the trachea, thyroid, aorta, heart, lungs and stomach were already removed, weighed and measured. 

“Detective Murdoch.” She nodded back as he stood there at parade rest with her elbow-deep in Mr. Landswell. She expected him to find fault with her performance, and she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction. It was why she came in early, despite her late night, to get to work. Three hours later her feet already hurt, her arms ached from the effort and the space between her shoulder blades burned. It was morning still and she was already fantasizing about a long hot bath when she got home tonight.

“Any preliminary findings?”

Straight to the point _ ,  _ she noticed. She flung him a challenging look, flexed her shoulders, then began.  __ “Mr. Landswell is a well-nourished male of approximately thirty-five years. Five foot, ten inches in height. One hundred eighty-one pounds. No gross abnormalities. No signs of recent outward injury. No birthmarks. And before you ask, there is nothing obvious to indicate he was an alcoholic such as yellow skin or eyes, although I will need to examine liver sections more closely.” She cut more mesentery away from the intestines as she talked. While the detective did not appear to flinch at the autopsy proceedings, she thought he did look uncomfortable being the one observed. She motioned to the corpse with her right shoulder. “A dreadful way to go...imagine all you aim for is fun with your friends, enjoy yourself…” She looked at him again, assuming he’d agree with her. 

“I suppose,” the detective murmured in return, and then was silent for several minutes more while she worked. “Have you a cause of death?” he finally asked, breaking the silence. 

“Poisoned cognac, as I suspected last night. I  _ am _ being thorough,” she added dryly. 

Detective Murdoch remained unmoved by her effort. “Poisoned with what, doctor? Wood-alcohol? Or an adulterant? Which one?” he asked, indicating the body. When she was silent, he went on. “Methyl alcohol? Acetone? Kerosene? Formaldehyde?...” 

“...Or benzine, brucine, cadmium, or mercury salts, chloroform, camphor, or carbolic. Even gasoline. Yes, I  _ am  _ aware of the list, Detective. You do understand there are at least sixty to seventy different denaturing formulas being used which I have to sort through? And, no, I have not been able to do the complete lab work yet. In my opinion, he died too quickly for the usual adulterants, but as I have not completed all the other autopsies nor done comparative chemical analysis, I cannot speculate...” She trailed off pointedly, looking at the detective again.  _ He was persistent, wasn’t he? _

Detective Murdoch shifted slightly, clearing his throat. “Agreed.” 

“Yes, quite. I’ll perform the tests as soon as I can, Detective, but I will have to narrow it down first, starting with organic versus inorganic, I think. The keys you asked after are over there with his clothing and effects in that paperboard box. You can have the keys, but I need more time with the other items.” She kept cutting inside the abdomen, detaching the intestines so she could weigh them. She brought them out to the scale, disappointed, instead of being impressed, when he did not blanche. She shrugged to herself and proceeded making her notes, then set the intestines aside for further examination. He retrieved the key, but did not depart, which annoyed her.

She went back to her dissection, talking while she worked. “I understand you are impatient for your answers, Detective, but look around you. The Toronto City Morgue was state of the art when it was built and furnished in 1886. I will remind you that was back when a physician treating an infant cholera patient prescribed sunshine in a hayloft so that the medicinal horse manure fumes did their work! Unfortunately, nothing much has been updated since then. I’d wager pieces of equipment here are older than either of us.” 

She slid a side glance at him. “Be glad for the ice-box we do have, or with the heat and the number of corpses I am dealing with, I’d be poking holes in them to burn off putrefaction, a barbaric practice of the last century, or so I am told. Although -- each would look a bit like a macabre birthday cake!” She enjoyed seeing him finally squirm the tiniest bit, satisfied to crack his façade. “Also, the medical examiner’s office is severely underfunded. There is nothing for paper chromatography, and I have no Stas’s protocol to test for [ caffeine](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caffeine) , [ quinine ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quinine) , [ morphine ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morphine) , strychnine, [ atropine ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atropine) , and [ opium ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opium) ,” she told him, to see his reaction. His lips formed a thin line, making her wonder if it was news to him or not. “I only have enough reagents to perform about four tests. To that end,” she continued, “yesterday I directed one of the attendants to a chemists’ supply house to obtain more.”

“You were able to find the money most quickly, Doctor.” 

“Not exactly…” 

“Not exactly?” he asked, obviously confused.

“I was informed there was funding for tissue for the water closet, and that was about it.” She tried to make a joke of it. “So, for now, the water closet is off limits.”

“Ah,” he said without inflection. “So how are you procuring what you need?” 

“My own money, and I called in a favour at the University,” she replied, gasping as her hair slid out of her chignon, and fell around her shoulders and into her eyes. 

Sighing deeply, she looked down at her hands covered in blood and up at Detective Murdoch.

Seeing her predicament, he walked behind her. “May I be of assistance?” 

She did not see a way around it. “Please.” 

Within moments he deftly gathered her hair, and with the pins still in her hair, clipped the coil into a bun. “I’m afraid it’s not fashionable, but it is serviceable.” He retreated to the other side of the autopsy table, just as a door clanged open and shut at the top of the ramp. 

Julia jumped a little at the noise, getting her heart racing. “It will serve just fine, Detective. Thank you,” she managed, as a booming female voice called out. 

“Oh Julia. How dreadful what happened last night, I’m assuming that…” Mick’s voice stopped abruptly. “Oh hello, Detective Murdoch.” 

Julia exhaled, smiling at her friend, who trotted down the ramp, dressed in a light brown linen suit, white shirt and green tie. Today at least, Mickie exchanged trousers for a skirt. Julia wondered what the occasion was. “Well, I would introduce the two of you, but you already know one another.” 

“We’ve worked together before,” he nodded politely. “Good Morning, Doctor McDaniels.” 

“It’s been a while, Detective, but I see some things never change. You’re still hard on your pathologists.” She stood where she could observe the autopsy. “It is not even, what, ten-thirty? And you are calling for results.” 

Julia thought she saw him stiffen, more, if that was possible. 

“Perhaps, but Dr. Ogden appears suitably...enterprising. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the station house.”

“Detective...When will anyone be coming in to make an official positive identification?”Julia had to ask, since it was going to hold her up if it was not taken care of soon.

“Ah. Well. We have yet to find the appropriate person, to, ah, come down for that. But I will follow up. And you'll contact me when you know something...definitive?” 

“I assure you, I will.” 

“I appreciate it. Doctors.” He got his hat on, made a suggestion of tipping his hat in their direction, then turning sharply on his heel, he left. 

After hearing the door close safely behind Detective Murdoch, Mick came around to see the autopsy and laughed conspiratorially. “So, I see you’ve become acquainted with  _ the _ Detective Murdoch -- already earned your first bit of praise from him. No small feat, Julia, and you’ve only just met.” 

Julia made a dismissive sound as she removed the last piece from Mr. Landswell's abdominal cavity. “We met last night. Calling me  _ ‘enterprising’ _ sounds like damning with faint praise to me.” She looked over to the other woman and moved her arms to indicate the white tile morgue with its sloping ramp and glass-walled office. There was a single porcelain sink, a wooden work bench for chemical testing, and an ice box for sample storage. Even the walk-in cooler still relied on ice. 

“What in Hell have I gotten myself into Mick? This place is decrepit. I have only been here less than a week, and the more I know the less I like it. Inadequate electricity and lighting. An ancient spectroscope. The best microscope here is an unlighted Watsons and Son’s dissecting microscope. The most recent text is Witthaus’  _ Medical Jurisprudence, Forensic Medicine and Toxicology _ , volume three! How did you ever make it work here?” Julia heard herself becoming shrill. She did not even let her friend answer. “And now instead of four to six rotating coroners, I have  _ nine  _ corpses to autopsy. By myself!” 

Mick assisted by turning the levers on the sink so Julia could wash her hands. “Mick, you have been my mother’s chum forever and my mentor in all things. I have followed your career, went to Women’s Medical College in London just like you did. You served as coroner here. However, did you do it? With that detective hovering! One more stiff in a room full of them.”

Mick groaned. “You and your puns. I missed them! If he merely hovers, you are doing well. He ran the last coroner out of town, I’m told, because the old dear refused to go out in the middle of the night to crime scenes and was not up to standards as Detective Murdoch expects,” Mick told her, handing over a towel. “Do your job. It is what you are paid to do. The Detective will be satisfied with that, and I know you can win him over. He also didn’t mind standing so close to you either.”

“My hair fell out, Mick. It was embarrassing. He was only kind enough to help me put it back up so I didn’t have to stop the work I was doing for  _ his  _ autopsy.” 

“Already defending him, too, I see…” she laughed as she went to the far wall then opened a secret wooden compartment in the back of a white-washed cabinet. To Julia’s astonishment, Mick fetched out a bottle of whiskey, pouring a generous dollop into two beakers. She smiled, handing over one of the glasses. Julia peered at the clock. Mick just shrugged.

“Sun is over the yardarm elsewhere. Relax about Detective Murdoch, Julia. He’s not my type but he is a fine example of the species...Careful, though, if you think to enjoy him.” 

For Mick to encourage a liaison was positively outrageous. Julia nearly spit out her drink. “Not you too!” 

“He’s always been chivalrous, but I don’t think he’d style the hair of just anyone.” 

Julia saw that smirk. “Mick! I’ve only just started here! You, Ruby, Mother, Father -- you all want me boxed in and paired off!” she huffed. “I have defied my father’s and society's expectations and made myself a free, independent, unfettered woman. Nothing less. I hardly need a man to be fulfilled -- any more than y _ ou  _ do!” While it was never expressly said out loud, Mick’s preference for the company of women was a widely known secret in Toronto society, but as she was properly married, there was little scandal and there was always plausible deniability. 

“All right darling...as you wish,” Mick winked. “Tell me about what happened at the Crown. Had you been there long?”

“I didn’t even have time to finish my first drink before…” Julia gestured at the corpse.

“Yes, Conrad Landswell has wrecked more than a few parties but never quite…. well...” Mick answered, shaking her head. “He certainly wasn’t my favorite person, but no one deserves to go out like that. You don’t suspect methyl alcohol, do you?” 

Julia considered. “Actually, no, I do not, since it can take as much as thirty hours to kill and he complained of being unwell only that evening. Besides, an antidote for methyl alcohol is ethyl alcohol. No. I think Mr. Landswell consumed whatever killed him while he was at the Crown Club last night. The constabulary automatically assumes murder or some sort of crime. I actually hope it was an accident, just as I suspect the other deaths were.”


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**1030 hours, Saturday June 24th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

“Learn anything?” Inspector Brackenreid called from his office as Murdoch returned. His boss was reading the papers again and his hair was mussed -- always a warning flag. 

“There are going to be the usual delays in receiving results, sir.” He sat down on the inspector’s black leather settee. “Dr. Ogden’s only physical findings so far are that Mr. Landswell was poisoned by an unknown substance and he was not obviously alcoholic. But none of it is definitive.” 

“No other speculations?” 

He picked a speck of lint off his trousers. “We must remain open to the idea of accidental poisoning, Mr. Landswell choosing poison as a suicide method, and, finally murder.”

“And motive,” Brackenreid reminded him. “For murder or suicide, we can look into his business and personal life. What are his assets? Is there insurance? Who inherits?”

He nodded. “Perhaps he served in the war and has struggled with the aftereffects and... well, decided he could not cope anymore.”

“Oh for... He wasn’t one of those poor sods who lost an arm or a leg, or half their face!” 

“No, sir. As for accidental poisoning…”

“If that bastard Rocco Perri’s illegal alcohol killed all those people, we need to see him hanged.” His boss’s voice was sharp. Brackenreid leaned forward on his desk, tapping the newspapers with his glasses. “Murdoch -- just in case it is not an accident -- I want you to try and see if there is a link between Mr. Landswell and Perri. And I need you to be quiet about the inquiry. Don’t let on to anyone you are trying to do it.”

This was the real problem, and he had no idea if finding such a link was ultimately going to be better or worse regarding the politics of the day. He guessed worse. “If there is a tie-in with Rocco Perri’s organization and the adulterated alcohol, perhaps Mr. Landswell and his business ran afoul of Mr. Perri.” 

“That would do it, poor bugger.” Brackenreid sat back in his chair, appeared to reconsider his statement, then shrugged. “Get on with it then. Bring me back evidence or a suspect by the end of the day.”

He rose to leave, then turned back. He’d been thinking about another, darker, avenue of investigation. “Sir, we have to consider all possible motives. Including this was a deliberate poisoning of multiple people which happened to include Mr. Landswell.”

“Good God! I know there have been accidents before...but deliberate mass poisoning? That is diabolical!” 

Murdoch agreed. “Just because it has not happened before doesn’t mean It cannot happen.”

“But, why? What possible, bloody-minded motive?”

He chose his words carefully. “Individuals with extreme sentiments who support prohibition and those who wish to repeal it, might use the specter of so many deaths as public theatre for their cause. Or it could simply be a person with a grudge against Society with homicidal impulses.” 

Brackenreid shook his head in disbelief. After a moment he straightened in his chair and picked up his glasses again. Murdoch knew no one who served in the war had any doubt about Man’s capacity for evil, Brackenreid being no exception. “What do you lack and what is it going to cost me?”

“I am at a standstill for forensic evidence until the autopsies and lab work are finished. I will go back to the Crown Club tonight to do follow-up. In the meantime, give me as much latitude as possible, sir. And, for discretion, we’ll keep the number of men on the job towards the small side. Hodge is rounding up what we can get on the other deaths. I’ll send Higgins to get background information on Mr. Landswell’s business and personal life, and get Crabtree to track Landswell’s movements, persons he visited or who visited him. That might help sort out motive for either murder or suicide, and the possible source for the cognac which we are presuming killed him.” He knew he was asking an awful lot of his men; the least he could do was try to get them compensated. “I might be requesting overtime, sir.” 

Brackenreid resumed his long face, then relented. “Very well, Murdoch. You go personally to Landswell’s house to poke around and I’ll instruct the others what needs to be done. But Murdoch, watch your mouth about your theory of a mass poisoning, or there will be mass hysteria to go along with such a notion!”

***** 

With the keys from Landswell’s personal effects, Murdoch let himself into the man’s home, standing in a small foyer with a dining room on the left and a salon on the right. All three spaces were expensively wallpapered in coordinated, understated arabesques. A Turkish carpet in complementary greens and golds was centered in each room. He picked up the mail which had spilled from the mail-slot onto the floor. He needed to get a sense of Conrad Landswell’s personality, so he looked through the slim post - a single envelope from Landswell’s bank and an Eaton’s catalogue. He set them both on the hall table which held a telephone receiver. He took down the number and surveyed the space.

The first thing he noticed was the house was spotless. Landswell was either a good housekeeper or paid a maid to clean. The furnishings all had a modern feel -- new pieces, not a family inheritance. In the dining room the table was walnut, with a silver-service displayed on an accompanying sideboard. Above the sideboard was a large mirror. Underneath in the cupboard, was a single small decanter, which smelled like sherry. Apparently, he did the bulk of his drinking at the Crown. The salon held a pair of olive-green sofas, a small mahogany table, and two upholstered chairs in the bay window. A coloured glass lampshade hung at the end of a graceful bronze lamp. Three landscape oil paintings and two prints graced the walls. He was no art critic, but he judged they were tasteful and well-executed. There were no books, no photographs, no clutter and no memorabilia. Nothing revealing of the owner. He proceeded down the hall, past the staircase, to the kitchen in the back of the house. A set of fine china with a simple band around the edges and crystal stemware rested in a butler's pantry. The icebox was empty. The only foodstuffs were dried goods, with a small amount of bread and butter in the larder. Under the sink, Murdoch found a plethora of products and preparations to clean a home and its contents or eliminate pests. These he copied down in his notebook, and left them in place. 

Up the stairs was altogether different -- no attempt at décor or embellishment. Here, the rooms were out of order. In Landswell’s room at the front of the house, the bed was unmade, clothing tossed over the back of a chair. The closet contained two nearly identical dark suits and six white shirts with attached collars. He rooted around in the drawers, turned the mattress over, and pulled out all the paper in the Landswell’s small desk until he found the lead he was looking for. The other two rooms and the bathroom received the same treatment. He copied down the names of any nostrums or chemicals in his notebook. 

There was no sign of a second person inhabiting the home. No evidence of a woman, other than a few letters Landswell kept which appeared to be from a recent love interest, if the dates on them were any indication. No safe. No cash.

By the time he was done, Murdoch had a fully formed suspicion about Mr. Conrad Landswell, but to be sure, he checked the attic and basement. It was already hot, so he shed his jacket before heading up a set of winding stairs to the attic, where he found what he was looking for: a full set of out of fashion furniture under a few sheets to keep the dust off. There was a crate or two of gew-gaws as well. The cellar only revealed a jumble of tools and leftover electrical wires and parts, a few stoneware dishes and ordinary glassware.

Murdoch came back to the first floor for the last test of his theory, even though he was running out of time -- he was due at the morgue with Crabtree by five o’clock. He started back in the dining room, pulling the sideboard out from the wall, turning over the silver pieces and each chair. He even pulled the carpet up at the edges until he found a small label.

“Gotcha!” he said to the room, unmindful of the smears on his suit and the grit which dusted his sweaty features. 

He grabbed Landswell’s mail on the way out, adding it to the few papers he removed from the house, closing and locking the door behind him. He used a clean handkerchief to wipe the dirt from his eyes. Letting himself out of the house he hurried to his office because he was interested in seeing what Constables Crabtree and Higgins were going to come up with, but Murdoch was already certain of one fact that might be critical to getting to the bottom of Landswell’s death:

Conrad Landswell was a fraud. 

##########

**A/N: Dear Reader...do we have you hooked? Let us know. We always want to hear feedback, comments or Kudos!**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**1710 Hours, Saturday June 24th, 1922**

**Toronto City Morgue**

Julia just sat down to her coffee when Detective Murdoch and one of his constables finally waltzed in. She recognized Constable Crabtree from Friday night at the Crown Club, a slight, youthful-looking man she guessed was no more than twenty-five. She always found it hard to tell about the ages -- or heights -- of men in uniform, finding the uniform to be a great equalizer and to add extra years or gravitas to a man’s bearing. The copper’s topper added four inches, minimum. 

Both Murdoch and Crabtree had the same grim expression.

Julia was not particularly chipper either, the two autopsies she completed today making her arms and feet and back ache miserably. Stretching had not helped one whit; she complained to herself about having gotten to feel so old. But she tried to smile, mindful of her bet with Ruby about seducing the detective. “Gentlemen,” she set her cup down, “you are here for the results of my day’s work?”

“Yes, Doctor. Do you have any more information?” 

The detective removed his hat, prompting the constable to remove his helmet. Politeness aside, he remained focused on the case. Julia mused if he ever was _not_ focused on work. 

It certainly wasn’t making her wager with Ruby any easier.

She found herself starting with a complaint. “Aside from a traffic accident victim whose cause of death was relatively easy to determine, I have eight other dead individuals to autopsy.” She gave a last, longing look at her cup of coffee, then turned to the folder she prepared, and opened it. She cleared her throat. “I can tell you at least one of them, Mr. Landswell, did not die of natural causes. He was an otherwise healthy individual. Sectioning of his liver indicates there is no evidence he was alcoholic and there is no other tissue damage. I have concluded he was poisoned.” 

“And which poison, Doctor?” the detective said, a little too quickly. Instead of apologizing for his impatience, he clamped his lips tighter.

“If the poison was cumulative, I would have seen visible organ and tissue damage in the samples I took. I did not. I also confirmed it with a test for inorganic compounds, which was negative.” She saw the edge of the detective’s mouth twitch. _He already knows that, Julia,_ she told herself. 

“And…” he prompted. 

_Clearly his version of restraint._ She withheld her exasperation, but he got the message, making an apology in her direction. But he still held steady for an answer. “The scientific process requires systematic analysis,” she reminded him. “I did a general test for alkaloids in each of three samples, blood, stomach contents and the bottle of cognac, which were all positive.” 

He continued to stand there; pencil poised over his notebook. 

“Mr. Landswell’s death was due to asphyxia brought on by chemical poisoning of the neural pathways which control breathing.” Julia handed him a prepared page. “I have a list of chemical compounds which result in respiratory arrest to test for, but I only had enough reagents for four tests--the four I already conducted. I put typical chemicals which are used to denature alcohol at the top of the list.” She paused. “It is still a long list.”

“Do you have an informed hypothesis, Doctor...?”

“A guess, Detective? You don’t strike me as the type to appreciate guesses. I am still without enough material to complete the list, not to mention the comparative analysis for court on all eight corpses and the accompanying reference samples of presumptive tainted alcohol.” She said this plainly trying not to be defensive under his scrutiny. Previous coroners figured it out despite inadequate resources and this persnickety detective with whom to contend, so she can too. “But whatever it was, he consumed it within hours of his death.”

The detective nodded to Constable Crabtree, who pulled out his own notebook. “Sir. My investigation indicated Mr. Landswell came to the club directly from his office for his supper a little after six, was served and ate by six-thirty or so, then opened his liquor vault and began drinking from it after he finished his meal. The only bottle removed was the cognac, and he did not offer any to another member. He sat alone at his table drinking, but it was not unusual.”

Julia’s recollections of the evening were similar. “Your time-frame is consistent with my assessment of his stomach contents and assumptions about the toxic substance which killed him. That will figure into determining the poison and the official time of death.” 

Detective Murdoch scribbled again in his notebook. “Yes. Well… Thank you, Doctor.” 

He made to leave, when Julia reached out to stop him. She nearly got her hand on his arm when she pulled back. “I will require more materials, which I don’t currently have, and a careful analysis to pin it down. Moreover, I have no idea if it is the same chemical which caused all the other deaths.” 

“Point taken,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. “Constable, please collect Mr. Landswell’s effects and meet me in my office. Thank you again.”

Julia watched him tip his hat and leave. Still no connection with _him_ , but now she had an eager younger constable with whom to make inroads. 

With Detective Murdoch gone, Constable Crabtree relaxed, smiling as he turned to her. “Good evening, Doctor. Quite a welcome aboard you’ve received here, haven’t you?” he laughed slightly. “I... I must add I’m quite pleased to see a woman here...I’ve long been a supporter of women’s rights,” he added. “I... I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I’m Constable Crabtree... George Crabtree.” 

Smiling, she walked back at her coffee. “Nice to meet you too. Can I offer you some?” she asked, gesturing at her pot.

“Much obliged. I... I used to hate the taste of the stuff, but ever since I shipped overseas...” He accepted a cup from her. 

“Yes; a common experience...mine included,” she laughed back.

“I didn’t know you served in the war, Doctor.” He took the seat she offered. 

“I finished at the University of Toronto in spring of 1914. I fully intended to go to medical school in the fall, but my father argued it was unsuitable for a woman, and instead gave me a trip to Europe. I was in Britain visiting family when the war broke out, and well, it was the thing to do, I guess.” 

“I’ve, er...met your father. On the job...an inquest...I can’t imagine your father took it well, his daughter joining the war -- if you don’t mind the observation. This coffee is delicious, by the way…”

“Thank you,” she raised her cup. “And no, my father was not pleased, but he wasn’t in England, and didn’t understand the zeal of enlisting like they did in Britain. He was unhappy with me, but to order my return would have been equally unseemly for him,” she shrugged. “After two years as a nurse at field hospitals in France -- at the endless Verdun no less -- he made me a deal. If I’d leave the war, he’d pay for my medical training. I was reluctant to abandon the war effort, but…” she stopped, hoping he would understand. She was glad when he smiled. 

“I... I would have taken the deal as well,” he nodded approvingly. “Besides, Verdun was a nasty place. I managed to avoid it myself...didn’t get to France until January ‘18. By a stroke of fortune, I was assigned to Captain Brackenreid Royal Military Police unit with Lieutenant Murdoch as his second in command. I served with them for about a year. When they mustered out in February ‘19, they recruited me to apply for a position with the Constabulary when the war was over.” He smiled. Proudly, she thought. 

The men of Station House 4 had been comrades in arms, which meant an extra level of trust between them. Julia did a quick mental calculation: the constable was younger than he looked, perhaps only twenty-three. Inspector Brackenreid and the Detective must have volunteered right after Prime Minister Borden’s 1916 New Year’s address asking for more volunteers. “Has Detective Murdoch always been a demanding man to work for?” 

“Well y... yes, and no. During the war he always set the best example for his men, was ...well he...he managed to be stern _and_ congenial, even lighthearted at times, but then…” Crabtree stopped himself again, clearly uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry, constable. I’m not here to get you in trouble, I’m just trying to figure him out, is all, trying to avoid the fate of the other coroners... I understand he ran the last one out.”

“Yes, yes...well, you’d have to ask the Detective about that. Besides,” he said, “Detective Murdoch is a man of science. His methods are exact and precise, but I understand they have to be...He asks nothing of us he will not himself do, or...or at least has done ...in the past I mean. Of course there is the matter of digging holes….” He stopped, then smiled more broadly. “I’m fortunate to be learning from the best. Detective Murdoch believes I can eventually be promoted to detective myself!” 

“A paragon of virtue,” she commented, hiding her doubts.

“He even encourages my imagination. I used to amuse my mates with games or stories when we were over there -- you know, to deal with the boredom...days, weeks and months of it…You know when we were not...”

He stopped abruptly, this time with no smile. She recognized that particularly distant look because she’d seen it before on many a soldier: the holding in, the uncertainty whether any other living soul could possibly comprehend life in a bloody, stinking, vermin-infested trench, where the only relief from that misery was to be ordered over the wall to withstand a barrage from the enemy. She never faced that in person, but she’d choked on the stench of their blood-soaked and putrid clothing when they came to the aid station. She was there to listen to the pitiful whimpers or raw-throated screams of men’s whose nightmares tore them awake in the middle of the night. She sat endless hours with men whose bodies and brains refused to let them rest, or were constantly alert, or were constantly in pain from limbs which were only ghosts. She heard from more than one of them that they wished they’d died instead of surviving. 

Too late, she recognized she’d gone too far. She made sure she looked directly into his eyes. “Yes. I believe the phrase I heard from soldiers was ‘months of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror…’” she said gently.

He gulped and nodded, waving her off, eager to change the subject. “Well, um...Detective Murdoch encourages me to pursue creative writing, but does advise me to save it for my stories, not my official reports. I... I fancy myself getting published one day.” 

“I’m sure you’ve learned my sister is a writer. She’d be delighted to make a friend on the police force and could even instruct you on the finer points of journalism, but she will more likely than not get you in trouble here at your day job.” 

He gave her a lopsided smile. “You know, Doctor, this case about poison has inspired me to write a story about a couple of older women who poison lonely gentleman callers for their money...I’d call it _“Cyanide and Sympathy”, or “Satin and Strychnine”_ I... I will have to use a pseudonym because my Aunties might think the story is autobiographical. I have a... a great many Aunties you see….” He was clearly about to launch into a story when the phone rang. 

Colouring, he stood up. “Goodness...That’ll be Detective Murdoch wondering where I... I’ve gone. Tell him I’m on my way,” he instructed, stopping only to grab Landswell’s personal effects and head up the morgue ramp and out the door. 

Julia just shook her head at his mad scramble to flee across the street to the station house. _Getting to know Constable Crabtree was going to be delightful._ Making those inroads into Detective Murdoch, however, was proving to be a challenge. She reached for the telephone, picking up the receiver. 

“Toronto City Morgue, Dr. Julia Ogden speaking…”


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

**1810 hours, Saturday, June 24th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

**_“...and you won’t be constable first class for much longer if you keep that up, do you hear me, Sunshine?!!!”_ **

Murdoch didn't bother to chastise Crabtree for tardiness. Inspector Brackenreid did it loudly enough for the whole station house. Crabtree took the dressing down manfully and immediately started examining the box of clothing and personal items from Mr. Landswell he’d brought with him from the morgue. The whole station house was happier when the inspector jammed his hat on his head and left for the day. 

Murdoch gathered the men in his office where he could make notes on his chalkboard. Hodge and Worseley had already given him information on the additional presumptive “Bootleg Booze Deaths” as the afternoon edition of the papers was calling it. His chart was filling up fast, necessitating a second one be scrounged and soon. He picked up the chalk and wrote, ‘Alkaloid poison’ under cause of death in the column next to Mr. Landswell’s name. 

“Constable Higgins, let’s start with you.” Higgins, whose otherwise baby-face was improved by a rakish scar through his right upper lip, nervously extracted his notebook from his uniform breast pocket. Murdoch hoped Higgins was going to be better organized than the last time.

“Sir. I did a gander through city records and at his office. There is nothing that says he was ever dizzy for a dame enough to put a ring on it. Mr. Landswell made his nut with a small electrical shop he opened about five years ago. He did jobs for the telephone company. Last year he bid for work on the Toronto Transportation Commission for the electric street cars.” Higgins turned a page. “He got a small job out of it but a nice piece of dough. He has no full-time guys, hires day-labour and uses subcontractor fellas for the larger jobs. He rents his office space on the cheap, but he owns a small warehouse down by the docks where he keeps his supplies. Oh, he hired out his bookkeeping.”

Crabtree rubbed his chin with his hand. “Could a warehouse be the connection with Rocco Perri, sir? Or the city contracts?”

Murdoch was thoughtful, looked at his chart as if it would give him an answer. He wrote ‘connections?’ on the board, reluctantly. “Any business debts, or perhaps lawsuits going against him, Higgins?” 

“None that I can find, sir. Although the city records are well...er, bewildering. Sir.”

“Thank you. I am sure you were thorough. Please look over the bookkeeper’s records as soon as possible. We could use your understanding of business, and if he was slow paying his workers.” Murdoch was exaggerating of course; it was Higgins’ father who had a small family-run piano store , but he was trying to encourage Higgins to use his resources and his brain. “And visit his banker, as well, first thing Monday...”

Murdoch was about to move on when Higgins spoke up. “I think he was behind the eight ball, busted, sir. He has bankers, plural. Not a fakaloo artist exactly, but he was circulating cabbage from one to pay the vig from the other.”

Crabtree got to Higgins first. “Which means...?”

“He was floating a lot of loans,” Higgins said, as if it had been perfectly clear the first time.

“I see. “Murdoch was not surprised by the information, although he was surprised Higgins discovered it so quickly. “Very good, constable.” 

“And that may just be money from the, er, more legitimate sources,” Crabtree suggested. “Loan sharks? Gambling?” 

Murdoch nodded, making more notes on the board for ‘loan shark’ and ‘bookie.’ “A good point as well. Constable Higgins, you have more work ahead of you. Keep digging into Mr. Landswell’s private life on Monday. Crabtree, what else have you found?”

”I... I think Higgins is right about Mr. Landswell’s, er…situation. It’s quite odd. His pocket watch, chain, cufflinks, suit and shoes are of fine quality, but his undergarments are...well, they have the holes repaired in them. As do his socks. Nothing one would see from the outside, but, discordant with his outerwear.” Crabtree continued. “Could financial straits be a cause for suicide? Is it enough to be so down on his luck he’d voluntarily put poison in his up-scale drink and die, er...in style as it were?”

“Or was there a money motive to kill him over? Get him mixed up with the mob?” Higgins was excited by the idea. 

Murdoch was pleased something had caught the young man’s energy. He made notes on his chalkboard under ‘motive.’ “Gentlemen, my observations concur with yours. Our Mr. Landswell presented a certain facade to the world for public consumption, but underneath, he was different. There is practically nothing personal at all in his quarters. And no evidence of military service, not a speck of it. He rented his home and all the tasteful, expensive, furniture while his private rooms were sparse, his wardrobe sparser, indicating to my mind he did not have the funds to support his outward lifestyle. He was, in other words, a sham.”

Crabtree was the first to catch on. “No wonder he did not have any friends or close associates: they might have seen beneath the veneer.” 

“Exactly. We need to locate his next of kin, or someone who knew him well, to get the real picture. I have the name of a woman with whom he has corresponded, and...” Murdoch pulled out a sheaf of correspondence from the top of his desk with a small flourish, “her address so we can interview her and get her to come down and identify his body in the morgue.” 

Murdoch was feeling rather pleased with the shape the Landswell investigation was in after less than 24 hours, thinking he had matters well in hand -- that was until Crabtree spoke up:

“But, sir. If he is a... a sham as you say, perhaps he is not even Conrad Landswell at all?!” 

##########

Julia hadn’t had time to finish her coffee when the morgue telephone rang again; this time it was Mick to remind her she’d be picking her up at eight o’clock sharp this evening, and that she had better not be working late. “I am bushed! Two complete autopsies today! I forgot I had muscles where I am aching. I am stiff and sore and wish to go home for a long bath and longer sleep, like an ancient crone.”

“Nonsense, Julia! An inordinate amount of time with the dead makes one forget one is living,” Mick admonished her in a low, throaty chuckle Julia loved. “Besides, I know you. You  _ do _ want to go back to the Crown Club tonight and learn more about what happened,  _ don’t you? _ ” 

Julia hesitated only a moment; Mick always nourished Julia’s sense of adventure and laid out just the right bait she was going to bite at. She laughingly agreed with the plan and rang off. 

She finished her coffee, believing it an abomination to waste any of the precious potion, and grabbed her bag to hurry home for a quick bath and to dress. On the way up to her rooms she checked at the desk for her post -- nothing but a medical journal. Sighing, she continued up the stairs to her bath. Movement and hot water helped unknot her tight muscles, making her feel almost like herself again as the caffeine hit her blood stream as she toweled off. From her closet, she chose a pair of white silk wide legged pants with a white silk blouse and paired a white and red flower-patterned kimono over it. She fashioned her hair into a low chignon, added silver and garnet drop ear bobs, and slipped strappy white sandals on her feet. Her last choice was her favourite evening bag, a small enamel mesh Mandalian purse featuring a red flower design with silver chain and fringe which was a birthday gift from her best friend -- just holding it made her miss Dennie even more.

“There,” she said to the mirror, looking at herself with satisfaction from several angles. “No desiccated biddy anymore, back to being a bright and shiny twenty-eight-year-old!” Thus, it was not even eight-thirty when both she and Mick McDaniels sat in the Crown Club lounge, sipping their drinks -- Julia, an Old Fashioned made from Mick's personal stock and Mick with her usual straight whiskey. 

“God, this is bliss!” Julia let the whiskey and bitters mixed with sugar and orange twist slide icily down her throat. The rich, silky-smooth concoction hit her senses exactly right, after a rough day. “My job is going to kill me. I am running out of cooler space in the morgue.” 

Mick set her glass down. “No more shop talk. I insist. There will be plenty of time for that.”

Julia looked around, noticing several people she knew by sight. Mick was right -- all work and no play was going to turn her into no fun at all. She and Mick immediately fell to gossiping about mutual acquaintances. 

“Surely not all of your friends have settled down and married?” Mick asked her as they scanned the room for a source of amusement.

“They have. Dennie, who lost her husband in the war, is the only one not to have children and she is busy running her family tobacco factory. I am the last single girl, and their husbands are not as keen as yours is to allow them freedom,” Julia sighed, finishing her drink and asking for another.

“Reginald and I make few demands of one another. We care for each other, but alas, ours is no love story.” 

Julia snorted. “You, at least, have remained together. My parents, on the other hand….” She rolled her eyes as she sipped her new drink. “I turn my back and look at what happened.”

Mick gave her an appraising gaze. “With both girls gone, your father chose to retire from the city. Your mother wanted her own freedom, and well...the arrangement appears to be working for them both. Lionel is content with the discreet company of Caroline Hill at the lake. He wants to see you, you know.”

“I suppose I should be angry with that woman for destroying my parents’ marriage, but my mother  seems to bear her no ill will , and I have never seen my father so happy… As for visiting him, well I’m certain he only wants to warn me about the ‘excess women’ in the population. I can hear him now… ‘ _ It’s unfitting to still be single at your age...you’ve seen the world, now it’s time for you to settle down,’”  _ she mocked in a deep voice. 

“Yes, well, that’s your father for you,” Mick saluted and laughed. 

“He certainly has a narrow idea of the world.” Julia could not keep from smiling. 

“Still, I imagine you found time to have fun in London? You hardly wrote at all in the years when you were away… what news I got from your mother was, I assume, heavily censored because you cut the better parts out.” 

She frowned, momentarily uncertain if she wanted to share her experiences. She had not told neither friends nor family any gory details -- perhaps with Mick she did not need to go into details at all.

“Not really. By the time I finished my second year at medical school, influenza was raging. It was bad enough amongst the troops and I know it was bad here, but I tell you it was so much worse in France and England -- or at least it seemed that way to me.” She gulped down the bitter recollection, hoping she was not whining. “I think I had the hardest time with the ex-soldiers who made it through the war, the ones who had been gassed. They were hit the worst -- their lungs couldn’t take it.” Her brain was seared by memories of those patients gasping and choking their last breaths when the only thing she could do was watch one patient die while dreading the next one to come in. 

She saw Mick grow ashen, and nod sadly. “Here as well.”

Julia clasped Mick’s hand. “Even by the time I left, some people were still afraid of another epidemic.”

Mick gave a reassuring smile. “Yes, I can understand that. But we cannot live in the past.”

“Agreed!” Julia declared, needing to focus and shake the dour feelings. “Ruby begged me to come home. I think she expected me to get our parents to reconcile. I am as quite put out with her for misleading me, as she is with me for failing to achieve her ends.” She got serious for a second, turning to her mentor. “I do appreciate you helping me get the job at the City Morgue, however after I receive my Ontario medical license, I will find a position more to my taste, something with less death.” 

Mick’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “When do you expect your paperwork?”

“It can’t be long now -- I applied while I was still in England and I check the post every day. I haven’t told Ruby or Mother, but I’m not sure I will stay in Canada. Please don’t let on, will you? They are so excited for me to be home again...but, I will only give it a year here in Toronto.” She tried to sound  _ bon vivant _ .

“Julia, what is bothering you? More than your parents, I mean. You worked so hard to become a doctor...yet it seems to me you have lost some of your passion for it.” 

She hesitated. “I have been following Doctors Banting, Best and Macleod’s work on diabetes at the University of Toronto. Imagine a cure for that dread affliction, no longer having a death sentence due to a disease!”

“It is exciting work, Julia. I am sure they’d be open to hearing from you.” 

“Yes, well... Unfortunately, it appears my medical experience with artillery wounds, mustard gas and amputations has rendered me fit only for combat or a posting full of infectious diseases like typhoid, typhus, trench fever, lice. Oh, don’t forget gangrene. There is not a great call for any of that in Toronto. Imagine that.” 

“That’s harsh. Surely it can’t be as bad as all that.” Mick’s tone was worried.

“I suppose I can volunteer for the war between Greece and Turkey that is going on now or go south and hope the civil war in Paraguay remains an open conflict where I can get war and infections at the same time.” She tried to make it sound like an adventure. Mick planted her face in her palm.

“Mick, I swear my passion remains medicine, but I need a purpose, like I had in the war. Like I had during the epidemic. If I haven’t found one here by this time next year, to London I shall return. Perhaps I will teach or take another residency in psychiatry or surgery. Something where I can see the difference that I make.” Mick’s grey eyes searched her face and Julia felt the gaze penetrate. She wanted Mick to see how sincere she was, not her humiliation at just how many times she’d been turned down when applying for positions.

“I think I understand. A year is fair. For now, let’s drink a toast to homecoming and achieving your most cherished desire -- to Dr. Julia Ogden, M.D.!”

Julia accepted, raised her glass, allowing some of her anxiety to dissipate. “Now. How shall we satisfy my curiosity about what happened here last night?” 

Mick downed her drink in a single swallow. “I discovered something for you already: until very recently Conrad Landswell had a paramour...and it didn’t end particularly well.”


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**9:30 pm, Saturday June 24th, 1922**

**The Crown Club**

Occasionally Crabtree had a flash of inspiration which helped break open a case. Murdoch guessed this was one of those times. 

_ What if the man we knew as Conrad Landswell actually was someone else?  _

He made a note to ask Dr. Ogden if the body in her morgue currently labeled ‘C. Landswell’ had any deformity which might have excused him from military service, since he found no indication amongst his personal possessions that the man ever served.  _ Was the dead man a Slacker? _ Murdoch thought it was possible. Conrad Landswell, or whoever he was, was of the right age to have been drafted, if he had not volunteered. In 1917, the war was still full-on when Landswell started his electrical contracting business.  _ Would he have been considered an essential worker? Started a business just so he could escape conscription? Or, worse, was he a criminal who assumed an alias to hide from the authorities, stole a soldier’s identity, perhaps a man killed in the war?  _

_ Was anything to do with Rocco Perri, a reason for this man to take his life, or to get himself killed?  _

He still had questions about whether Landswell’s death was one and the same with the other unfortunates who drank and died when he arrived at the Crown Club’s back entrance, parked his motorcycle in the alley and placed his goggles on the handlebars. The night air was invigorating on the ride over, but it was sticky and hot again as soon as he stopped moving. He got his hat on his head and brushed dust from his trousers before knocking on the Club’s kitchen door. Noise emanated from open windows; he did not expect the place to be just as lively as the night before. 

The manager, Mr. Hedson, was waiting for him, looking as harried as ever. He pulled Murdoch along a service corridor, up narrow steps to the second floor. The sound of a Saturday night crowd and someone playing a piano came through the walls and floor. He could just make out foxtrot music -- _ I Was Wrong, All Wrong  _ \-- winding up. The tune put a damper on his mood. 

“Mr. Hedson, I’m surprised at all the people here. Aren’t they the least bit concerned about poisoned libations?”

“Detective. Each individual cabinet is stocked and locked by the owner.” Mr. Hedson repeated what he said last night.

“Which did not protect Conrad Landswell, did it? And how did the cognac Mr. Landswell drank get into his cubby in the first place?” Murdoch pressed. “When did he bring it? How long ago?” Instead of an answer, he was introduced to a swarthy man with a visage like a nutcracker -- a large, hooked nose and prominent chin separating hooded black eyes, dressed in pristinely white jacket and trousers with a starched apron over them.

“This is Mr. Lojacono. I asked him to stay and speak with you. He oversees receiving deliveries. Tell Detective Murdoch what you told me,” Mr. Hedson insisted.

Mr. Lojacono flinched. 

“Sir,” Murdoch said politely, “what do you know about a bottle of  _ Bache-Gabrielsen _ cognac, owned by Mr. Conrad Landswell?”

Mr. Lojacono licked his lips, flicked his gaze to Hedson. “Si. I received the package myself from the man who delivered it. It came from Mr. Landswell’s office on Wednesday, about four o’clock, with a note from Mr. Landswell to put it in his cabinet. So, I did.”

Murdoch felt impatient but checked himself. “And how did the bottle get into the cabinet?” he asked as calmly as possible.

Mr. Lojacono pointed to the corridor wall. “Like this.” He removed a key from his pocket and proceeded to insert it into what Murdoch at first took for being a plain wall, but which he now understood was the back wall of the dozens of private ‘cubbies’ filled with alcohol. Mr. Lojacono pulled the back door open, motioned putting a bottle in, then closed the cubby back up. Murdoch noticed that although each patron had a key to the front of his private vault, there was a single master key which opened all the backsides. “Only one key. I keep this key, always. No one else. I put the bottle in for him, like I do whenever a member sends one along to be locked in.”

Murdoch saw how nervous the man was, but also how hard he was trying to show he had nothing to hide. “How did you know the note was from Mr. Landswell?”

“Stationery from his office. I know his signature.” 

When Murdoch gave him a sharp look, Mr. Hedson explained. “Members do not bring cash to purchase their meal, here, Detective. That is how we make sure no one can accuse us of  _ selling _ alcohol. Members sign a chit and settle up at the end of the month. And before you ask, only members may sign, and we have signature cards as a safeguard.” 

Murdoch wasn’t completely satisfied but went on. “Mr. Lojacono, was it unusual for Mr. Landswell to send a bottle around?”

The man considered, looking to Hedson for permission to be candid. “Si. The bottle of  _ Bache-Gabrielsen.  _ Mr. Landswell, he did not have such good taste.”

It was not exactly the question he was asking, but he got a better answer anyways. Murdoch appreciated the bluntness. “Was the bottle sealed or opened?”

“Already opened,” was Mr. Lojacono’s answer. 

Just what Murdoch expected. He finished with a few more questions about the key and the bottle, the delivery and how the club operates. He’d have to investigate Mr. Lojacono to see if the man had a grudge against Conrad Landswell, or could have been bribed by Rocco Perri into poisoning him for money or revenge, with the same questions for the delivery man if he could be found. Murdoch was fast running out of manpower. Even if he kept Crabtree and Higgins on Landswell, then had Hodge and Worseley head up the other alcohol poisonings with the remaining constables, he’d put in for even more overtime. 

He spent another twenty minutes making sure it was not a simple matter of picking the lock to get into the cubbies, but he found no evidence Landswell’s lock had been tampered with or forced. Frustrated, he went back down to the kitchen, poking in corners for the names of each cleaning product on the premises, getting Mr. Hedson to take him to the basement as well, in case the poison was introduced while the bottle was at the club. 

He decided to take one more look at the room where Landswell’s body was found. The buzz of activity and raised voices was audible while he was still in the downstairs kitchen.  _ Lovely Lucerne  _ was being pounded out in an up-tempo waltz by the pianist -- he recognized the tune as one Constable Higgins had taken to humming. 

An unexpected wash of apprehension overcame him when he entered the salon, sensing before seeing Dr. Ogden and then her companion, Dr. McDaniels. He liked the older woman, grey threading her wavy brown hair, giving her an aura of mature wisdom. She was a competent pathologist and an able witness on the stand. 

They did not see him. Dr. McDaniels had her hand on Dr. Ogden’s arm, and they were laughing, deep in conversation. He hesitated, then decided to approach, formulating what he was going to say. He hoped his eyes did not betray him. Both women were decked out in trousers, less revealing, yet undoubtedly more scandalous than what Dr. Ogden and her sister wore last night. Dr. McDaniels wore a bespoke tuxedo, raising his long-standing suspicion that she was in fact an invert, attracted to women.

He found it rattled him to consider the same might be true of the younger Dr. Ogden. He decided he’d been foolish, then, to have been put off by her apparent forwardness with him, thinking she had been trying to flirt with him. 

_ Pity... _

He got right up to them and almost said,  _ Good evening, ladies.  _ “Good evening, Dr. McDaniels, Dr. Ogden,” to keep the encounter professional, despite the party atmosphere and the women’s decidedly unprofessional attire. 

“Detective Murdoch!” Dr. McDaniels turned in her seat to greet him. She left her hand on Dr. Ogden’s arm. “We were just talking about you.” 

Murdoch flinched inwardly in case the laughter he witnessed was at his expense. He said nothing, merely set his face into an inquiring placidness. 

“I was going to speak with you Monday morning, Detective,” Dr. Ogden added. “Are you here on the investigation?”

“Yes. I was getting more information about the bottle our victim drank from, how it got here, its security, and any possible chemicals on premises which could have supplied the poison...er, whenever we have it nailed down.” He made sure it was not actually a complaint. “I have a question for you, Doctor, if I may intrude into your pleasure this evening.”

“And that is?”

“Did Mr. Landswell have any conditions which would have earned him a deferment from military service?” 

“Nothing I could find on gross examination, I already told you. I suppose his hearing or eyesight might have gotten him sidelined. Why?”

“Just a loose end,” he answered, having one more thing now to check off.

“Any new leads, detective?” Dr. McDaniels asked. 

“Perhaps. Mr. Landswell’s bottle of cognac arrived on Wednesday, from his office. He did not sample it until Friday night. It makes me interested to know where he was on Thursday, since he was not here at the club. I checked.” 

“Well,” Dr. Ogden spoke up brightly, “I think we have information for you. The gossip around here says Mr. Landswell used to bring in a lady friend on Thursday evenings for a small supper. I am told they had recently parted ways. Quite recently.”

Dr. McDaniels leaned forward, grinning as she whispered. “Don’t they say poison is a female’s weapon, Detective?”

He straightened, immediately interested.  _ Could the woman who’s name I found in Landswell’s house be this same lady friend??  _ In his mind, he was already re-writing tomorrow’s assignments for his men. __

Dr. Ogden disrupted his attention again with her light laugh. “You know Agrippina the Younger is rumored to have poisoned her husband Claudius so her son Nero could become Emperor. That certainly didn’t work out well, or there was the much-maligned Lucrezia Borgia and of course, one must remember Catherine de Medici, who avenged her husbands and sons,” she challenged with a grin. “Perhaps we should be looking for an  _ Aqua Tofana  _ of sorts?”

Murdoch still wondered if Dr. Ogden was flirting with him -- then he saw Dr. McDaniel’s hand remained on Dr. Ogden’s arm. Well, challenge accepted anyways _ ,  _ he thought. “ _ Aqua Tofana? _ Yes, Giulia Tofana, a 17th century Italian woman who made a potent elixir which helped women to obtain an ersatz Italian divorce, shall we say? Of course, she and her daughter eventually hung for their crimes, though, and took the exact recipe with them to their grave,” he added, smiling in delight in their shocked expressions.

He tipped his hat to them both. “Thank you, both. No _Aqua Tofana_ poisoning I think, Dr. Ogden, since you have already ruled out inorganic compounds such as arsenic and lead. But as Alexandre Dumas has said, we certainly will _Cherchez la femme!”_

As he turned around to leave the way he entered, he managed to suppress any laughter until he was back in the alleyway behind the club. “I’m not quite the ignorant copper you believed I was, eh, Dr. Ogden?” he murmured to himself as he mounted his motorcycle, adjusted his eye protection, and sped off into the summer night with all the 18 horsepower in her engine, opting to take the long route back to the station so he could spend the extra time to think.

He decided one thing right off the top: send a constable around first thing tomorrow to look for the woman who wrote all those letters he found at Landswell’s house: Edwina Virgil.

_ I will also be interested in seeing how this mystery woman reacts to identifying his body in the morgue...  _

###### 

_ “Know-it-all…” _ Mick muttered, whilst saluting the detective’s departure with her drink. 

Julia heard the piano player start into the chorus of  _ Teasin’ _ , one of Paul Specht’s and his Society Serenaders orchestra hits.

_ “...teasin’, but still it’s pleasin’. Is that the reason, you're always teasin’? This hesitating, is aggravating, you know I’m waiting…” _

Julia watched him leave, oddly disturbed as she fell back into her chair, her eyes never once leaving his fine backside as he purposely and proudly strode out. “They certainly are diverting their best resources to the high-profile cases.” Julia sighed, downing her drink in one gulp and signaling for another.

“Are you sure you haven’t any interest in him, Julia?” 

“I do declare you are as bad as Ruby. Of course, he tempts me,” Julia sputtered. “However, he’s married, and none too interested in me,” she exhaled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a fit, young, physically able male is all. The fact he has a fine mind to accompany his looks and physique, well, it’s not fair,” she laughed as her new drink was set in front of her, unwilling to admit her bet with her sister.

“Even I notice it,” Mick laughed in return. “I suppose we should just be thankful that by all appearances, he’s on the side of good because he could certainly get away with evil incarnate looking like he does with brains like that.”

Turning back to her companion, Julia got serious again. “Speaking of bad, I do not think they are taking all these deaths seriously, Mick. Oh, maybe Mr. Landswell, friend of the Mayor -- what about those other poor people in the cooler?”

“Do you need help? I can manage a morning or afternoon, or two. I can probably get reinstated, especially if I volunteer my time.”

“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you, although at this point I’d appreciate it. I forgot how physically demanding dissections are, more demanding than a surgical residency.” Mick was a vigorous woman, more than twenty-five years her senior, and while her friend was athletic, it was an imposition to ask. “No, what I was thinking about was looking into it myself. However, that is all for another time. I’ve seen enough of death for one day, and I have a weekend to relax. After all -- my work isn’t going anywhere.”

“I certainly hope not.” Mick laughed. “This time, I promise no more dead bodies, although to be fair it was Ruby who dragged you here yesterday… She gave your mother most of her grey hairs.” 

“Ruby is going to give everyone grey hair. Speaking of Mother, are you coming to her next salon? She has a new painting which she absolutely adores. She says it is mildly scandalous, whatever that means. And, she has rented it, if you can imagine, says renting art is all the rage, allowing one to enjoy variety without any commitment.”

Mick dropped her voice and set a sly smile on her lips. “Variety without commitment…It sounds divine…”

It dawned on Julia Mick was not talking about  _ art _ . She giggled. “You must come -- I think Mother’s new gentleman friend will be attending…” 


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**10 o’clock AM, Sunday June 25th, 1922**

**The Smalls Hotel, Queen Street, Toronto**

“...We have to stop meeting like this, Detective Murdoch. People will talk….”

Julia angled her remark in his direction, not bothering to look up. She was rumpled, grumpy and a smidgeon hung over, but it never hurt to try to lighten the mood. 

By the time she got to the body, a trickle of sweat slid down her back and Detective Murdoch was already pointedly examining his wristwatch. The Smalls was an apartment-hotel establishment which catered to the middle-class, mostly merchants or owners of small businesses, so she was surprised to see what, at first glance looked to be two lushes passed out in the bathroom. Of course, if they were merely passed out, there was no call for a coroner. 

Putting her medical bag down with a thump, she extracted a thermometer and went to work. She was glad she chose a roomy summer dress to wear which allowed her both movement and modesty as she bent and kneeled on the tile floor. 

She finished examining the husband slumped against the toilet and pivoted to the wife, who was on the floor by the bathtub. She checked the woman’s eyes, then mouth and jaw, testing the arm muscles -- stiff as a board. She looked at where the woman’s flesh rested against the floor, as she had for the husband. Through an incision in the abdomen, she took liver temperature, wrote it down and re-confirmed room temperature, doing quick calculations. “Liver temperature compared to room temperature indicates time of death approximately between 7 pm and 9 pm last night --- although this heat wreaks havoc in the calculations -- perhaps while you and I were at the Crown Club, Detective.  _ Rigor mortis _ is consistent with that.  _ Livor mortis _ indicates they died where they were found,” she told him. “What are their names?”

“Josiah and Mildred Jackson,” he said. “They have lived here nearly a decade. The couple run a decor and antiques shop by the St. Lawrence Market. As you might guess.” He gestured over her shoulder to the abundance of fixtures, furniture, paintings, lithographs and object d’art which overflowed the couple’s rooms. “Cause of death, Doctor?” 

“Baked to death?” Julia got herself off the floor, pushing off with one hand. Eye to eye with Detective Murdoch she was disappointed to see he was immaculately groomed with a dry forehead and nary a hair out of place. By his demeanor, she guessed she was not making a good impression. “There is no evidence of either of them being shot, stabbed or strangled although there is some petechiae, although ruptured blood vessels in the face and eyes can indicate alcoholism or suffocation. No obvious defensive wounds, nothing you have not observed for yourself. I will know more when I get them in the morgue and conduct the postmortem. My guess is poison.”

“Perhaps poisoned alcohol they drank?”

_ Of course. That question was why Detective Murdoch is conducting this case.  _ She shook her head. “Could also be poison by injection, absorption, inhalation, or other ingestion. For all I know at the moment, this could be natural causes---flushed facial features could be secondary to a heart attack, Stranger things have happened.” She saw him adjust his feet slightly, giving just the tiniest portion of his impatience away. 

“If it is poisoning, did they know they were sick? Feel ill? Is that why they were both in the bathroom? Trying to vomit it out?”

“You are asking me for more conclusions than I have evidence to support. It will depend on the toxin.” She gave him a firm look. “What you actually want to know is: could it be a situation similar to Mr. Landswell or those other men and women who consumed poisoned alcohol. The answer is, I don’t know.” She considered the Jacksons: two more lives lost, perhaps stupidly, perhaps tragically, perhaps deliberately, her mood turning more irritated. “I will tell you one thing. Prohibition is idiotic. Prohibition is killing more individuals than ‘demon rum’ ever did. And most of the deaths never come under your professional jurisdiction.”

Across the small room, the detective put his shoulders back. “Prohibition's intention to solve one problem has instead given us a worse one.” 

This surprised her. A copper, especially in Toronto the Good who did not have a full-throated support for the anti-liquor laws? She looked at him to make sure he was not teasing her -- he looked dead serious. 

But then again, she told herself, he tends to look serious all the time, doesn't he? She checked again -- yep, still serious.

_ How will I ever crack that man open when he won’t even crack a smile?  _

Julia put her instruments away and surveyed the washroom of the apartment hotel. It was still morning and the day was stifling hot already, which did not appear to bother the detective. She, herself, was melting, and the whiff post-death excrement released from these corpses was not helping matters. “Can you open a window, Detective?” 

He hesitated, then reached over to crank the sole window open. It was stuck, so she waved him off from trying it, and escaped the hot washroom for the adjoining sitting room with the detective right behind her. Her gaze appreciated the parlor, even if it was as airless and only fractionally cooler than the bath. She studied a selection of framed pictures.  _ Mr. and Mrs. Jackson had eclectic tastes. _ “Detective Murdoch, did you know in Toronto, like New York City, the death totals from poisonings are equal to all the shootings, hangings, stabbing and motor vehicle accidents combined?” 

He looked surprised. “No, I did not.”

She was surprised she caught him with something he did not know. That felt...marvelous. She moved on to a chest-high glass-fronted library and unlocked the doors, running her hand over the leather-bound titles packed onto four shelves. “I have been doing reading germane to my new job. In England I attended a medical conference where a group of pathologists was speculating people are hiding murders-by-poisoning amongst those which are truly accidents. A chemist in New York City named Dr. Gettler has been working out how to establish reference ranges for chemical poisonings.”

“I know his work. Dr. Alexander Gettler works with Dr. Charles Norris from Bellevue Hospital, chief medical examiner for New York. I have been trying to get one of their monographs…”

_ Of course, he is... _ “Good luck with that, Detective.” 

Inside the library,  _ My Secret Life _ , by ‘Walter’, caught her astonished eye. She looked closer.. _.there was one book after another! _ She picked out a hand-bound volume, placing it on the top of the library. It fell open to a beautifully coloured etching of a voluptuous, naked woman, her sex on full display, being approached by her lover whose own rosy-tipped erection preceded him by an unnatural number of inches. She couldn’t help but snort.

She suppressed a giggle and the urge to comment that the engraving had to have been drawn by a man as she quickly turned more pages, each one more erotic and explicit than the next. “Detective...did you say Mr. Jackson and his wife were upstanding members of the community?”

She saw him pause his own exploration to answer. “As far as we know, yes. They specialized in collectibles. Why do you ask, Doctor? Is it relevant to their cause of death?”

“I may have a clue here,” she said, deliberately teasing to lure him over and discover what she was looking at, curious about his reaction. She stepped aside so he could get an eye-full of the two-page center spread depicting a scene which she judged to be a rather creative orgy. Garishly rendered, King Edward’s  _ Siege d’amour _ was in full deployment and fully occupied.

He came up on her left shoulder and politely waited until she stepped aside. She made sure she could see him clearly.

“What is it Doc...tor?” To his credit, Detective Murdoch only stumbled slightly and did not look away. He kept his eyes steady as if he were only examining an old and inoffensive daguerreotype to humour someone’s elderly aunt.  _ Too steady _ . His ears though, she noted with delight, burned crimson.

“The Jacksons possess quite an extensive collection of pornography. For instance…” she turned the page to another depiction of coitus from India, beautifully gilded, an example of the  _ Kama Sutra _ , she guessed. “This one is rather, um, athletic, don’t you agree? I mean, what stamina that would take!” He was clearly uneasy and fighting it, making goading him particularly fun. She thought he might even be titillated. 

He cleared his throat and gifted her with a half-smile. “According to the  _ Kama Sutra _ , it is the woman who dictates the fulfillment of libido. There is also instruction on three types of kissing...”

She experienced a flare of annoyance.  _ Mick wasn’t kidding about the Know-it-all part. _

“How comprehensive, Detective. But there is also no discussion of mutual consent,” she quipped, smiling at him while he kept himself stiff, giving away his consternation. Flipping to another page, she found a rendering of a swing in which the riders could participate in intercourse. “How fascinating!” 

His eyebrows rose. “Ah yes, an aid of sorts that could help participants who are not -- shall we say flexible -- partake in some of the more challenging maneuvers depicted in this text...Doctor, as scintillating as this is, I’m not sure this is pertinent to our case.” 

Curious at what the two had been looking at, Constable Crabtree came by and looked. “Oh! It’s one of those swings...you remember...just like they had at French bordellos…” 

“Constable!” Murdoch snapped, cutting him off. “Need I remind you…” he jerked his head towards her.

“D...Doctor! My apologies. I... I forgot who I was in company with,” Constable Crabtree began, turning a deep shade of scarlet. “I’m v…. deeply sorry, Dr. Ogden, not that I…I would know or anything…” he fumbled, looking suddenly terrified of both her and the detective.

“Constable, I assure you, I am not scandalized by such talk,” Julia said as she put away the books. She was curious who was inheriting the Jackson’s estate and if she might be able to purchase some of them. A new tease came to her lips, but she decided to leave well enough alone to save the poor constable from either apoplexy or a dressing down.

“Now if you will excuse me, I will have the bodies delivered to the morgue…” She attempted to leave the apartment, when Detective Murdoch approached to halt her. She thought he was going to confront her on the erotica. 

Instead, he spoke most gravely. “Doctor, is it possible a person is deliberately poisoning an alcoholic beverage, say rum or moonshine, in order to kill people? I mean, to kill as many people as possible?”

Julia was shocked at his question, and disturbed by it too, because he was so serious about such a vile concept. Her playful mood dissipated. “It would be monstrous!” she said without needing to think about it. She collected herself, slowing down to make herself understood. “But my first investigation is cause of death, then manner of death for the poor souls in my morgue. Right now, I cannot even know the cause of death, with medical certainty, not down to the exact chemical or substance responsible for a purported poisoning, until I have the materials to complete the proper testing. Which I will not have until at least Monday if I am lucky. The rest is your responsibility, Detective. And I hope you are wrong.” 

******

Murdoch shot Crabtree a glare and breathed a sigh of relief when Dr. Ogden followed the Jacksons’ bodies down the stairs. All erotic literary distractions aside, she made sure he understood he was going to have to wait for any results from her, because she was in a bind. He appreciated her candor but told himself he didn't have to like it. 

He was still ordering his thoughts when Crabtree coughed softly. The constable looked a bit sheepish; Murdoch took pity on him -- Dr. Ogden was trouble enough for any man.

“Ah, Crabtree. Yes. Thank you. Please start in the bedroom looking for physical evidence. You know the drill and be careful. There could still be deadly poison in these rooms, possibly absorbed through the hands. I will join you after I make a telephone call.”

When Murdoch returned ten minutes later, Crabtree had systematically examined the contents of the couple’s wardrobe and was starting on the bureau, being  _ overly _ careful with opening drawers and searching underneath and behind things. The two of them, constable and detective, had done this so often together, they fell into an easy rhythm of concentration on what they were doing and conversation. 

“Up for a game of ‘poke’?” Crabtree asked while he was sorting socks. 

He wasn’t exactly sure it was appropriate but considering the  risqué dip into the Jackson’s extensive pornography collection before, it seemed harmless enough.  _ Anything to get off  _ that  _ topic _ . “If you must…”

“The category is animals. It is about the size of a rabbit and related to the porcupine,” Crabtree jumped in. “It has been hunted to near extinction due to its ravages of sugarcane, potatoes and yams in South…”

He answered easily. “Agouti. I see you are back to the ‘A’s’.” During the war Corporal Crabtree had invented ‘poking the lieutenant’ which provided hours of distraction for bored men. It required Lt. Murdoch to provide an answer to a question offered by one of the men, who vied with each other to stump him. 

“I am still fiddling with the format of the game. To make it more exciting. Ah! I know...what if the answer had to be in the form of a question?”

“What is an Agouti?”

Crabtree’s eyes got all big and round, as they always do when he thinks he is on to something. “Exactly! Now that is different. All right, same category. Next one: A large Australian bird belonging to the  _ Corvidae _ family, with a large and conical bill. It has a melodious voice, is easily tamed and learns to whistle tunes.” 

Crabtree must study to come up with an item as obscure as possible. He was quite sure the man snuck into his own detective’s office to cadge entries from the reference books he kept on his top shelf. “What is a Baritah?” That one took him longer to rummage in his memory for. “I still think you should memorialize this. Package it up as a parlour game, perhaps with teams this time? Try selling it to the Parker Brothers again.” Murdoch had been almost as disappointed as Crabtree when his game had been turned down the first time. 

“Actually, I... I was thinking I could sell the game on my own by subscription, with new answers and questions delivered by the post weekly, or...or do you think monthly? I need to make it more interesting, more risk or peril for the player. I need a cleverer name than the last one I tried. Oh, I know, how about “On The Spot”?...Perhaps if one gets an answer wrong the other contestants get the points? I... I already dismissed an electric buzzer or getting a pie in the nose…”

“No. I don’t imagine jeopardy will sell a parlour game to the ladies.”

“Do you think players could bet on getting the answers correct or not?”

“Need I remind you gambling is illegal…”  _ Honestly, George Crabtree’s imagination gets away with him. _

Crabtree was using his pencil now to pick through Mr. Jackson’s ties. “Sir. Speaking of animals...I was wondering if it might have been a... a snake or...or venomous spider which did the Jacksons in. You know, an exotic thing, perhaps kept as a pet.” 

He found himself hesitating to put his own fingers into the pocket he was trying to explore. “Doctor Ogden found nothing on the bodies…”

“But that’s just it, sir. They can get in exceedingly small spaces, you see. Crawl up a pant leg.” Crabtree kept stirring the drawer with his pencil.

He noticed an itch starting. “We will keep a lookout, but I see no animal or insect cages or containers here.”

“Perhaps it escaped from another room, sir?” 

“Constable!” He knew he spoke too sharply. “We are looking for anything which might explain these deaths. We have seen no sign of a struggle. No weapons. No external cause of death...yes, I know a bite could be hidden by clothing!” Murdoch cut him off before Crabtree could object. His calf itched and he refused to scratch it, silently cursing Crabtree for planting the thought. “Dr. Ogden’s initial findings are of poison, and we are trying to see if it is related to the string of denatured alcohol deaths, so concentrate on bottles, other liquids, full or empty.” 

He shook out two medicine bottles from Mrs. Jackson’s purse, placing them in a paper bag for later examination. “If not caused by tainted alcohol, Dr. Ogden suggests the poison, if there is one, could have been injected, inhaled, ingested or absorbed. If you come across any powders, please sample them carefully.” Murdoch began with the Jacksons’ desk, forcing himself to slow down to closely look at and appreciate what he was seeing, comparing it with his memory. So far, though, nothing stood out. 

Crabtree nodded when he completed his own search. Murdoch saw he was empty-handed. Finished in the bedroom, without speaking, they moved on to the apartment’s sitting room. “Perhaps it was an accident, sir. The gas heater left on…”

“In summer?” 

Crabtree shrugged. “Perhaps Mrs. Jackson gets cold easily.” Before Murdoch could respond, Crabtree then said: “Or the air was sucked out of the room, by negative air pressure. You notice how hot it is in here and the air in here does not move -- hardly any relief at all from when all of us traipsed in and out. The hot air just rose and it all escaped...” He went to a window and tried to force it open. “It has been painted shut, sir...or the Toronto humidity is keeping it so tight.  _ Too _ air-tight and they...they just suffocated?”

He did not think either of Crabtree’s conjectures were the case, but there was an idea in there. “Do you know if the apartment and bathroom doors were opened or closed when the maid arrived with the Jacksons’ food?”

“Both closed, she said. Open since then, and you’d never know it from the air in here. Of course! I have it! Maybe we can ask her if there was any glass on the floor, you know, and she cleaned it up?”

“Glass?” He had no idea where Crabtree was going with this.

“One of those glass chemical fire extinguishers you throw at...at the fire and it removes oxygen, putting the fire out…”

“ _ George! _ ” The Christian name slipped out in exasperation. “There is no evidence of any fire in this suite.” He paused what he was doing and turned back to the bathroom, his constable following. “But you do make a compelling argument about the air killing these two.”

“I do?”

“Yes. But it may involve taking the plumbing apart….” 

Crabtree had his head under the sink, pulling out tins of various cleaning products. “Good grief, sir. There is enough under here to kill a horse...literally,” showing them off one by one. “Or enough rat poison to take care of the mouse plague in New South Wales!” 

The two kept working another twenty minutes. “We are almost through here, please get the hotel manager while I finish up,” Murdoch asked.

He completed his survey of the Jacksons’ suite, absently scratching his leg as he placed several more items in individual paper sacks. Crabtree brought the tall, hefty manager up behind him like a tugboat bringing a barge into dock as Murdoch quickly slid his pant leg down from the damnable itch. 

“Tell me, Mr. Crumb, how is it your residents died last night, roughly between 7 and 9 pm, and no one noticed?” he asked.

“How should anyone notice?” Mr. Crumb lisped when speaking, which Murdoch thought was incongruent with the man’s enormous size. “Er, what I mean to say is we take our residents’ privacy and security seriously.” 

Mr. Crumb’s eyeballs bulged when the man figured out the error in his first answer. “Mr. Crumb, when did anyone last see Mr. and Mrs. Jackson?”

“The Jacksons always have their Saturday supper early in the hotel’s dining room.” Mr. Crumb blanched and he started looking frightened, shaking and wringing his hands. “But I swear the meal had nothing to do with this! No one else has gotten ill, not the slightest tummy ache. The hotel fed our residents  _ gratis _ yesterday---a fine chicken stew. You have to believe me...!” 

It took a minute to calm the man down and get the rest of the information: no, they didn't have any visitors; yes, they ate alone and were back in their suite by seven o’clock, having never left the premises as far as the manager was aware. The maid found them this morning when delivering their standing Sunday morning kitchen order. 

Crabtree confirmed the maid used her key to enter -- the door being locked from the inside -- but not barred. “She also said the Jacksons did not get along with their neighbors.”

Mr. Crumb's head bobbed in agreement. “I cannot imagine anyone wanting to kill them!” 

Murdoch suppressed a sigh. He heard that sort of naive disbelief, the public's lack of imagination and common assumptions about murder so often when he received anything else, he was immediately suspicious. The reality is, he reminded himself, with a few exceptions, people kill, not because they want to, but because they believe they have to _. _

The question is, who benefitted if the Jacksons were dead? 

He made arrangements to examine the plumbing with Mr. Crumb, who was not pleased to be told part of the waste lines were getting dismantled. Murdoch packed up his paper bags, planning to reconnoiter with Crabtree again once when they hit the street. 

“After you develop the photographs, get a couple lads onto fingerprint duty. It’ll give the night shift work to do. I will wait to see if Dr. Ogden can shed any light on this while I sort through the evidence we collected from their lodgings. You go home for lunch, and report what you can tomorrow.”

“Sir. Do you imagine this is another ‘bootleg booze’ case? They...er...the bodies are piling up.”

He winced at Crabtree’s adopting the newspaper’s sobriquet. He looked back up at the building, tilting his homburg back to see the entire  _ façade,  _ thinking of Mr. Crumb’s remark about being unable to imagine a motive for killing the Jacksons. “They are. But  _ why _ are they piling up?” 


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

**12 noon, Sunday June 25th, 1922**

**City Morgue**

Julia placed the needle on her new Gershwin recording, letting the acoustics of the morgue architecture fill with up-tempo music. She set up coffee to brew in her cherished glass Silex, placed coffee in the percolator, filled the round bottom flask with water, then lit the spirit lamp, snacking on a few cold cuts she picked up on her way back from the Smalls Hotel. Thus ensconced, she checked her reference books, listing the most commonly used adulterants in legally distilled liquor which were alkaloids, as well as common alkaloid poisons on her chalkboard. Without the proprietary formulae, it was the best she could do.

_ But so many deaths? Death never respected one's class or station in life...it eventually came for all. _

She remained annoyed Detective Murdoch gave unequal priority to all of the cases, but she grasped it was not necessarily his own choice, and didn’t envy him his job, that was for sure. Since she wanted to win convictions of those responsible, she decided to ask Mick to help her prioritize. 

Munching on some cured meat lest coffee hit an empty stomach, Julia recalled Detective Murdoch’s question about someone deliberately trying to kill as many people as possible. What motive could there be? To spread terror in the population? To hide a single murder amongst many deaths? For pleasure? Nursing in the war and her time as a medical student had stripped any illusions she had about the evil to which men would go to achieve a selfish end. 

Sighing, she poured a finished coffee and walked back into the autopsy theater where the Jacksons’ bodies lay, took a sip, trying to choose who to begin first. Besides the Jacksons she had an additional 10 bodies now, awaiting her investigation. 

“Ladies first,” Julia announced as her young, lanky attendant, Jack Lester, stepped into the room to help her wheel Mrs. Jackson’s body over.

She undressed the body and set the clothing aside to review later. She combed hair for foreign debris, examined under fingernails for tissue samples, and looked over the body for any wounds or puncture marks, finding none anywhere in the skin or mucosa. She repeated the process for the husband, getting similar results. That confirmed for her the most likely cause of death was poison or a freak coincidence of natural causes. She set Jack to washing and preparing the bodies for full autopsy the following day. She also gave him permission to leave when he was done, as not much else was going to get accomplished today. “Your Sunday might as well be better than mine -- or the Jacksons,” she joked with him. 

Going back to her office, she settled in with another cup of coffee and her reference manual. “So, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson...what has befallen the two of you?” she asked herself  _ sotto voce _ , watching her assistant sluice water over them through the panes of her office window. Deep into a chapter on arcane toxins, her musing was interrupted by a constable from the Station House next door with a delivery. 

She accepted the box, surprised at how heavy it was, and that it made noise. She slid her reference aside and peeked into the box -- delighted to find it full of reagents and testing materials. 

She proceeded to tear into the box, scribbling notes on the flap of the box as she examined each bottle and packet, calculating what was possible now with the quantities available. There was less in the box than she hoped. Her day was going to be longer, but this was going to give her a jump on the mountain of work on her plate. 

“I have no idea which string got pulled for these, but it is brilliant! Thank God this box did not get stuck at the station house!” she announced aloud. Catching herself, she hoped that talking out loud did not become a habit when the place was empty.

Satisfied, she rose, calling out to Jack as she came down the office stairs. “Before you go home for the day, please set the Jacksons aside and roll out two of the suspected alcohol victims, whoever is closer to the door is fine.” She brought her chemicals down to the workbench and laid them out, helping Jack slide the gurneys into place. “I will see you in the morning; I will clean up, don’t you worry.” 

Approaching the bodies Jack pulled out, she got down to work, first extracting tissue for later laboratory examination. Then she set up her blood samples and her reagents. After waiting impatiently, she got the results she expected: Both of the so-called bootleg-booze victims were negative for inorganic compounds and positive for methyl alcohol -- in lethal quantities. She checked the livers under her microscope: evidence of cirrhotic changes for both. 

She sighed in frustration, she counted the corpses on ice a few feet away. Not enough chemicals left for the remainder of the victims -- not if she wanted to know for certain what killed Conrad Landswell. 

Julia opened the cooler, accepting a waft of cold fog against her skin. Was it wrong for her to find the sensation so lovely? Straightening her shoulders, she began jockeying gurneys until she could grab and extract Mr. Landswell, bumping the metal edge of the gurney into her thigh as she rolled it over the threshold. Then the door slammed shut. 

“Damn!” she yelped. The back of her skirt was caught in the heavy cooler door, making it impossible for her to reach around behind her to pull the metal handle to release herself. She twisted right and left to no avail, grunting in vexation, unable to snake one of her arms at the correct angle to grab the handle and pull. “This is what I get for sending Jack home!” she muttered. After thinking about it, she loosened her waist band, turning her body inside her skirt until she managed to reach the large cooler door lever, getting it open and liberating herself. 

Julia batted at her dress, seeing a large greasy mark on the blue fabric where the door had the material in its jaws. Good thing she learned how to get all sorts of stains out of fabric back when she was nursing. “At least no one witness this embarrassment.” Her voice created an echo, she noticed. Getting herself properly clothed again, she laughed out loud, enjoying the sound’s reverberations. 

Deciding talking to herself was the least of her worries, she portioned out the remaining reagents, gathered what she needed to test and began on Mr. Landswell…

By four o’clock she had the last of her answers. Pushing back from her chair she exulted, immediately forgetting the cramping in her arms and neck. With a giddy heart she reached for the telephone. “Yes, operator, I am trying to call Detective Murdoch, can you find the number for me?...Thank you.”

Her excitement was not dimmed when she found out he was not at home on a Sunday. She supposed she should not have assumed he was the domestic sort. She decided to try the station house, in case he was there. “Detective Murdoch? It’s Dr. Ogden. Yes…. yes...I have partial results for you. Well, I can give them to you now. Do you have paper and pencil?” On the other end of the line, he declined, telling her he had news for her and he wanted to hear her report in person. 

Less than two minutes later, he came down the ramp. 

“As you can see, I’ve become quite popular here,” Julia joked as she saw him take in the crowded state of her morgue. “Luckily, I managed to land a few testing supplies from the University, so I ran lab work for you this afternoon,” she added, gesturing towards the racks of test tubes. “I have done preliminary liver slides and toxicology on two poisoned-alcohol victims; both were alcoholic as evidenced by their livers, both had methyl-alcohol in their systems -- enough to kill.” 

She thought he almost made a comment, then just nodded, taking a seat by her desk. He gave her a pained smile. “Have you anything on the Jacksons?”

“Only preliminary information, such as there are no external wounds or needle marks; I have collected blood and tissue samples but not processed them yet.”

“I have information about the Jacksons’ evening meal. They sat down about five-thirty, six o’clock. Chicken stew. I have a sample from the kitchens.” 

“It will help when I look at stomach contents to confirm the time of death. But that is not why I called you over, Detective.” 

“Mr. Landswell?” he asked.

Julia gave him a brilliant smile, planning to win him over with her results. She flipped the next page to retrieve her typewritten report. “Mr. Landswell’s bottle of cognac appeared to be legitimate, with the toxin added after it was opened. Death was due to an alkaloid, which I have now identified as strychnine.”

“ [ _ Strychnos nux-vomica _ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strychnos_nux-vomica) . Wouldn't he have tasted it in the drink?  May I ask how bitter strychnine is?” 

“To answer your questions, Detective...it depends. It’s possible the taste of the strychnine would be masked by the cognac, considering it is less bitter than Brucine, but it would depend on whether or not Mr. Landswell had much of a palate -- or any taste buds. There are certain medical conditions which result in  _ ageusia _ , the loss of [ taste ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taste) functions of the [ tongue ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tongue) . Such a loss can include the inability to taste bitterness.” She shrugged. “Short of finding evidence of a stroke or brain injury, perhaps a brain tumor, there is not much I can look for in terms of autopsy to answer that question. As regards to the liquor, it does have a strong flavour. I suppose it’s possible if Mr. Landswell kept hearing about the hints of coffee or woody, or smoky tones of the brand, he might have thought that’s simply how it was supposed to taste. I could ask around if Mr. Landswell was a cognac  _ aficionado. _ ”

“That’s... not necessary… Can you prove it was added deliberately?” he asked.

She reviewed the facts. “Well, I doubt it is part of the bottler’s proprietary distillation recipe.... But, actually, no I can’t. Not if he mistakenly combined illegally re-distilled alcohol with the cognac bottle’s contents. I assume you thought of that … Brucine,  C 23 H 26 N 2 O 4  is used by legitimate distillers such as Toronto’s own Gooderham and Worts to add to alcohol in the denaturing process because it is so bitter. It is similar in action to strychnine C 21 H 22 N 2 O 2  , a cousin if you will, and usually found in association with strychnine. These two CH-3-0 molecules make up the difference in chemical structure.” Julia showed him the sketch she made, unsurprised he understood the chemical formulae. 

“So, it can be a deliberate poisoning or an error somewhere along the way, allowing strychnine into the denaturing formula rather than brucine.” He made furious notes as he spoke. “Time of death?”

She turned the page over. “The autopsy time of death is medically consistent with the witnessed time of death of eight forty-five last night.” 

“Strychnine has a long history of causing deaths,” he said, almost as if he was talking to himself. “It has been used for centuries in suicides and murders. Alexander the Great…”

She smiled, could not help herself interrupting him to update his list. “Christiana Edmunds, the Chocolate Cream Poisoner, or the Lambeth Poisoner, [ Thomas Neill Cream](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Neill_Cream) …” she teased, thinking the play on word about cream was funny. He did not appreciate the pun. “Detective, brucine is used as a deliberate adulterant to alcohol because it will make you sick, but is not as lethal as strychnine.”

He looked up. “We must determine how the strychnine was acquired and how, and when, it got into the cognac. How much will kill a person?” 

“One grain if ingested.”

“How much of the adulterated cognac would he have to consume for it to kill him?” 

She had already anticipated this calculation. “Considering the amount of strychnine in the bottle, I think about two to four ounces at most.”

He inclined his head. “Which is consistent with witness statements. How long until one feels ill and dies?” 

“Contact with strychnine can make you ill fairly quickly, death is within two to three hours at most after lethal exposure,” she explained.

“That is also consistent with witness statements. Is there any chance you’d be able to test to see if Brucine is also present? To substantiate the theory the brucine was impure -- excessive strychnine still associated with it?”

_ Of all the...!  _ Julia nearly swore.  _ This demanding bastard will be the death of me!  _ Instead, she put a stiff smile on. “I shall put it on my list.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“By the way Detective, as much as I have enjoyed Mr. Landswell’s charming company, he has run out of stories to tell me, and it is perhaps time for him to find more permanent lodgings?” 

He did not even smile at her polite euphemism. “I assure you we are trying to locate a person to make the identification… It's Constable Higgins first task tomorrow morning.” He nodded once. He gave her a quick twist of his lips, uncrossed his legs and started to get up before pausing. “So, some of it comes down to whether or not Mr. Landswell knew about the adulteration or the poison, or not. I have to consider the possibility he committed suicide… even though it’s an unusual way to go about it…” He sounded doubtful.

“What is it they say about adultery? What you don’t know about can hurt you?” she replied, laughing before her braid once again fell down.  _ This is embarrassing,  _ she griped inwardly as she accepted a pencil from him to hold her hair in place.

He hadn’t laughed along. 

“Speaking of which, do you have anything else on the other presumed poisoning victims? Anything to tie all of them, including Mr. Landswell and the Jacksons to a single source of poison?” he asked.

“I cannot report anything definitive, yet one way or the other. When I get more testing materials, hopefully tomorrow, I will have to test if there is strychnine in their systems as well. It is the only way to know with scientific certainty if the same toxins were present for all including the Jacksons or if Mr. Landswell’s death is similar or dissimilar. One cannot rush the scientific method, Detective, and you will not rush me.” 

That got half a smile from him.  _ It is harder than I thought trying to scrape an acquaintance in the middle of a murder investigation. _ Yet, Julia was emboldened. “Detective, speaking of bitter brews, I happen to know where one can have a French roast  _ café _ . Perhaps you could join me in a cup, later?” She saw him hesitate only slightly, almost as if he found the question foreign to him, then recover well. She guessed he did not get out much.

“When the case is over, yes, Doctor, I’d be delighted.” He smiled and bade her goodbye.

When he’d departed, Julia told the white-tiled room: “Well, I think that went well...” 

########### 

Murdoch checked his watch: 4:30. If he was quick about it, he’d be able to get to St. Paul’s before supper. He wasn’t hungry, not unusual when he was deep in an investigation, but he knew it necessary to refuel, and Mrs. Kitchen was going to be disappointed if he did not eat. His thoughts were so absorbed in sorting the facts of the case, he nearly ran Inspector Brackenreid down as he left the building. 

“Oi, Murdoch. Watch it. I have been looking for you, and you're not even looking where you're going.” 

“Oh. Sorry sir. What are you doing here?” It was unlike Brackenreid to quit his family on a Sunday unless it was serious. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” he countered. 

“Dr. Ogden called me over for an update.”

“There is a lot of that going around.”

“Sir?”

“Chief Constable Samuel Dickson called me himself for an update.”

He was shocked. If Dickson, a career policeman who worked his way up through the ranks to the top, is giving into the politics, then it is profoundly serious. “What did he want, sir?”

“The Powers-That-Be have decided I am to forgo my sons and Margaret’s summer salad and spend my day off in their company!”

Brackenreid positively growled that out. Murdoch’s alarms were at full volume now, because whatever it was it had to be near a national emergency to pry him out of his vow to his wife on the subject. After three years away in the war, he’d come back to a son who did not know him -- worse yet, was afraid of him. He’d never missed a Sunday since.

“I have been summoned to a five-thirty meeting at the Mayor’s office no less, for an update on the progress of your case. Or make that, cases. Did Dr. Ogden give you anything?”

“Yes, but only preliminarily. I can fill you in…”

“Nonsense. If she is here, she can explain directly to me so I can take it with me to my meeting. Tell them it is straight from the source.”

Murdoch pulled the door to the morgue open for his boss, letting him enter and following behind. Brackenreid greeted Dr. Ogden, who expressed surprise to have such a visit, especially after the purpose was explained to her.

“We all work for the city, Doctor Ogden. I suspect Mayor Maguire is getting pressure from certain Aldermen and control board members to wrap up this business with Conrad Landswell and give them an excuse to go to the heart of the bootlegging organization. Now we have Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, who dropped dead. What the hell is going on?” Brackenreid quickly removed his bowler. “Sorry, Doctor.”

Murdoch noticed her eyes storming in anger. “Inspector, it's been less than two days!” she argued. “I have nothing to report on Mr. and Mrs. Jackson other than they were not stabbed, shot or strangled, and I can find no injection marks to indicate death by that means.”

“So, poison like Landswell, then? Was that Italian fellow -- Lojacono was it? -- serving them at the Crown Club again?” Brackenreid leaned forward. “I don’t trust ‘im.”

“No. The Jackson’s have no connection to the Crown Club.” Murdoch saw how intent his boss was on getting an answer his masters expected, so he spoke up. “Sir. There is nothing which indicates the Jacksons’ deaths are related or  _ un _ \- related to Mr. Landswell or the other deaths as of yet.”

“So, what about Landswell and the other alkies?” Brackenreid pressed the issue. Dr. Ogden handed over the written analysis she just completed. Brackenreid found his glasses, put them on his nose, scanned the sheet and grunted. “Doctor, this is all well and good, but I am sure the Mayor did not get his degree in chemistry. Can you put it in plain words we can all understand?”

“Inspector Brackenreid, Mr. Landswell was poisoned with strychnine. It was put in his bottle of cognac along with a small amount of methyl-alcohol. I have examined the blood work on two of the so-called bootleg booze victims. Their blood analysis indicated the presence of methyl-alcohol as well, in quantities large enough to be fatal, as well as what appears to be properly distilled spirits, but not expensive cognac.” 

Murdoch appreciated how clear her explanation was. 

Brackenreid returned his glasses to his jacket, furrowing his brow. “So, Doctor. The liquor is not exactly the same. The type of poison is not exactly the same. Is there strong evidence or not? Can I tell the Mayor and the Powers-That-Be that the Jacksons and Conrad Landswell’s unfortunate demise are not part of these ‘bootleg booze’ deaths the papers are going on about? Move the scandal off the front page?” Inspector Brackenreid leaned in, making it less a question and more of a plea for her to rule in his favour so he can avoid telling bad news to powerful men. 

“Perhaps...I... I can’t be certain. Not without more analysis...I have more tests to run to render a scientific…” she stopped, appearing to consider. “But, I suppose my guess is there is not a direct relationship between the Jackson’s and Mr. Landswell’s case and the rest of the presumed bootleg booze cases.”

Murdoch was familiar with that sort of pressure from his boss, but Dr. Ogden had just gotten done telling him in no uncertain terms she was unable to make such a determination, so it surprised him she equivocated. 

She shrugged, presenting an irritated face. “The well-connected ones like Mr. Landswell and the Jacksons keep rising to the top, while the others are used to being forced to the back of the que and are patiently waiting their turn.” She gestured with her chin to the sheet covered bodies on the morgue platform. “That one there from Station House five’s jurisdiction, was found behind Givins Street with his pants down in the garden. He’s been my patient before.” Dr. Ogden pointed to one of the covered gurneys.

“He’s been on a slab in the morgue before?” Murdoch stared at her.

Dr. Ogden laughed, obviously thinking he’d told a joke. “No—England, during the war.”

“Pants down in the garden…?” Brackenreid asked.

“Not all citizens enjoy indoor plumbing yet, Inspector. Not in the poorer parts of town.” 

“You recognized him?” Murdoch was still not following her.

“Not at first. But I did recognize his scar from an open compound fracture which became infected. He almost lost the right leg. A lorry accident if I am not mistaken. Cpl. Howard Knox of the Canadian Expeditionary Force.”

It was Brackenreid’s turn to be surprised. “That can’t be!” He went over and pulled the sheet back, revealing the corpse’s head. 

The small movement of cloth sent a waft of putrid gas circulating in the room. Murdoch did not bother to steel his stomach, not after serving in France. The overwhelming stench of war was stuck forever in his nose, the most enduring, horrific reminder of his time in uniform. Nothing in the present was ever going to unseat that memory or disturb him, now. 

Brackenreid studied the craggy features on the slab, close cropped hair above a high forehead, thin nose like a knife edge and thinner lips ending in a long chin, before settling the sheet back down. “Bloody Hell – Knox was in our unit. Knox mustered out just before you joined me. Doctor, is Knox one of the bootleg booze deaths?”

She joined him by the gurney. “It is my theory, he may in fact have been one of the first to die. I’ve only done the preliminary and I do not have the bottle from which he drank. By the state of his liver, I’d say he’d have drunk anything which came his way. Maybe he was one of the first to get his share and couldn’t wait until Friday or Saturday night to down it?”

Brackenreid shook his head sadly, still looking at the white-draped form. “Poor old sod --- didn’t know him long but all in all he was a soldier, good head on his shoulders when he was sober. Too bad to see him come to such an end.” A fierce look darted from his blue eyes. “Murdoch, make Knox’s death matter. He was one of us and I want Knox avenged.” 

“Understood.” He reserved skepticism about accomplishing all of that to himself. 

“See if Knox can lead you to that infernal mob of bootlegging criminals so we can nail that rat bastard Rocco Perri for this. Conrad Landswell is out of the mix. That’s what I am going to tell the Mayor and the Chief Constable!” 

Murdoch was more cautious, despite his own suspicions about Landswell’s death. He followed his boss up the ramp not wanting Brackenreid to take what Dr. Ogden told him as proof-positive of anything. “Sir, is it wise to go so far?” he whispered.

“It’s good news, isn’t it? Our Mr. Landswell wasn’t done in by drinking off-brand moonshine. Not linked to any of the other alkies. No scandal.”

“Sir! That might mean he was murdered or killed himself!”

Brackenreid’s laugh was bleak. “Those are scandals of a different kind, Murdoch, no taint of illegal rum running or mob connections which can rub off on the gentry. Go home, Murdoch. All hands-on deck first thing Monday.” 

With that, Brackenreid tipped his hat again to Dr. Ogden and left.

Murdoch and the doctor both watched the inspector march out of the morgue. He was familiar with the determined way his boss was moving, because it usually meant Brackenreid was going to be intransigent if he did not get his way. During the war, Brackenreid’s men always knew their captain had a clear idea of what was to be done; for good or ill, he brought that attitude back with him to Toronto. Murdoch thought civilian life occasionally required a different skill set.

Inside, he sank a little bit.  __ City administration was watching this case and invested in the outcome meant a wrong step on his part, or Dr. Ogden’s, could result in disaster. He doubted she understood any of the politics of it. She hadn’t been in the job long enough -- and was unlikely to be in it long enough -- to lose her professional naivete. 

At the moment, he just wanted to get out of there. “I will bid you good day as well.”

“Detective,” she stopped him. “I will finish the preliminary autopsy on Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, and I add a test for strychnine for all the victims once I have enough of the materials to do so. But you must understand the volume of work, and the state of this place…” 

“I am aware, and sympathetic,” he said, going for the exit. 

“You had the last coroner run out of here, didn’t you?” she demanded, tugging at his sleeve. “Did you even take the conditions here into consideration?”

He was surprised, quickly suppressing any defensiveness. “The reason for Dr. Lloyd’s departure is not for me to say. As for your work as pathologist, you will do yourself no favours by being indirect or prevaricating with the Inspector, or anyone else, about the facts of the case. Part of your job will be to testify in court, and you must be able to be firm and support your conclusions with evidence, not succumb to bullying or leading questions. Men’s and women’s lives are at stake. If you cannot do that, especially when you are right, you should reconsider your position here.” When he bet himself she wasn’t going to last the week, this wasn’t the way he imagined things were going to go. 

He was aware as he spoke he was going to offend her. Her attitude hardened and an angry blush crept up her neck, then her hands came to rest on her hips in a position he knew came from defensiveness -- or defiance. He guessed the offer of coffee was probably rescinded. He started to soften his words when she cut him off sharply with hers:

“That will be quite enough. Good day, Detective.”

*******

Julia glared at him as he slid out of the morgue, outrage burning upwards from her gut. She yanked his pencil out of her bun and threw it on the floor, allowing her hair to fall. “I’ll be damned if I take anything from that man, including a pencil. Ever!” She grabbed a hank of her braid, and pulled, yelping out loud. 

“Ouch! I have  _ got _ to do something about this hair!” 

Putting away her tools, she decided she’d had enough for the night, and quickly cleaned the remaining items in the morgue after calling Ruby to have her meet at their mother’s home. 

******

Ruby was sitting on a porch swing reading a book with a cup of tea when Julia arrived. 

“You look like you have a mad on, sister. Whatever is the matter?” Ruby asked, dropping the book.

“My hair. I’m taking your advice and I’m finally going to cut it, Ruby. Are you helping or not?” 

Clapping her hands, Ruby jumped up and walked inside. “Come with me. I have a pair of shears in my old room. This is so exciting!” 

Upstairs at her childhood dressing table, Julia pulled the tie from her braid and brushed her hair one last time, staring at her reflection in the mirror at the waves of curls pouring down her shoulders. This was the image she saw each morning since she was a little girl. As cumbersome as it had become, she’d been taught to prize her long hair as a sign of femininity. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Ruby returned, brandishing the scissors, waiting for Julia’s cue.

“I’m ready, Ruby.” 

Smiling, Ruby quickly got to work, putting the hair back in a loose again braid to begin with, then winked when she grasped the hair in her left hand and the shears in the right. Julia studied the portrait of the two of them in the mirror, and momentarily balked at having her sister do the deed. 

“Well?” Ruby challenged. 

Julia recognized the glint in her sister’s eyes. Behind Ruby’s cherubic outward facade and smooth temperament was a devilish pixie, full of outrageous ideas.  _ Was this a good idea or not? _

She reached to the flask she put on her dressing table and took a swig for courage, then decided it was a celebration after all. “Out with the old, and in with the new!” 


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

**6:30 pm, Sunday June 25th, 1922**

**St. Paul’s Roman Catholic Church**

His hand moved in pace with words so familiar, the ritual so ingrained, his hand moved without conscious thought. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost; Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession…”

A mild Irish lilt began from the other side of the confessional. “The Lord be in thy heart and on thy lips, that thou mayest rightly confess thy sins. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Murdoch bent his head by the screen separating him from his priest, going through the motions. His list of transgressions this week was long, to which he added his offensive treatment of Dr. Ogden not an hour before, scouring his conscience for all his sins. Anonymous confession or not, Father Edward Cullen knew who was on the other side of the booth and was used to his recitation of anger and despair for God’s mercy and listened without comment until he was through. “Dear God, I detest my sins and am sorry for having offended You. I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell…”. 

He also knew what Father Cullen knew: his heart wasn’t in it. They both kept it up -- albeit for different reasons.

_ “Misereátur tui omnípotens Deus, et dimíssis peccátis tuis, perdúcat te ad vitam ætérnam. Amen.” _ The priest made the blessing sign and completed the remainder of the soothing Latin phrases, ending with the last “Amen…”

“Amen…” He made the sign of the cross and got up off his knees. Outside the confessional, he found a pew and prayed, or at least tried to, until the priest quit the confessional and joined him in the quiet, nearly empty sanctuary. 

“You will have to arrange for communion.” When he opened his eyes, Father Cullen had his arms crossed over his hassock and a hand under his chin. “Will…. have you heard from Liza?” the priest asked. 

He did not sigh, did not admit to any emotions about the matter. Only Eddie Cullen, his best friend since their Jesuit boarding school days, knew the whole truth. Outside of their roles as priest and parishioner, they were just Will and Eddie, two boys from the Atlantic Provinces who grew into men, remaining friends even as their paths diverged when one of them abandoned studying for the priesthood. 

“No, Eddie, I have not.” He twisted his ring, a thick gold band his wife had given him in this very church,  _ to make sure you and all those French women know you are taken _ , she had said. Eddie was going to tell him to go to Brantford again to try to reconcile with Liza, give it another chance. 

He used to believe there was always hope, but in the few months after he got home and just before the war ended, Liza left Toronto for a coveted teaching post in her hometown. He carried with him the image of her at Union Station as she waved goodbye out of the train compartment window. Around her neck was the silver horse pendant he gave her as a love token, to remind her of the day he proposed to her at Scarborough Beach Park. They had just witnessed the famous jumping horse who leapt headfirst sixty feet into a pool of water below carrying a rider. Liza clung to him in anticipation before the stunt, and afterwards was awestruck by the trust and shared courage of animal and rider, two souls who hurtled as one to their fate. The moment was entirely magical. 

_ “Liza,” _ he remembered saying,  _ “I want to take the plunge with you too...you and me together. Will you marry me?”  _ She was so happy when she said yes. He’d have sworn they  _ were _ happy. Years later, as she left that day for Brantford, he took her wearing his gift as a sign they were going to be able to bridge the divide between them... 

_ But, Liza, you never came back _ . 

He sat in the pew, not sure why he hung on. Was it because the truth was unbearable to him? Because something lodged in his gut and kept him up at night.

_ O, Lord! Have mercy on my poor heart. My life is ashes without Liza...  _

Father Edward Cullen, the priest, told him regularly it was a sin to be ungrateful for what he had, the bright and beautiful world God had made, by shutting himself inside his head. 

Eddie, his friend, just sat with him, not speaking, not pressing him for anything, not judging, while Murdoch ground his teeth to give himself something  _ real  _ to feel, other than the crump hole inside of him. 

Impotence was grounds for annulment only if it was present  _ before _ the marriage took place, which had not been the case; so there was only one option left to Liza to be free of him -- other than murder or suicide. He un-clenched his jaw just far enough to whisper: 

“As far as I know, she still insists I file for divorce on the grounds of her desertion. The three-year time was up at the start of the month.”


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**7: 05 AM, Monday June 26th, 1922**

**City Morgue**

Mick McDaniels immediately declared her approval of Julia’s new style. “Your hair...It’s quite daring! I like it, Julia!” 

Julia primped in the reflection from one of the glass storage cabinets, liking the way the whole effect framed her features. “Why thank you. You and my sister always were a bad influence on me.” 

“You’re welcome.” Mick teased right back.

“It will take some getting used to, but I like it too…” This morning Ruby laughed at her because when she took her usual morning swipe through her long locks -- she ended up brushing nothing but air at the end of her arm. She got a second giggle out of her sister as well for automatically tossing her non-existent braid over her shoulder. 

Julia flushed. “Besides, it is practical as are the trousers. I was not going to have it keep sliding into my work or keep having the cooler door eat my dress!” She motioned to Mick to take a seat next to her desk in the morgue office. “Wearing a nurses’ Bellevue cap was not ever going to be acceptable.” 

Now it was Mick who laughed at her. “Now there is a fashion statement.”

“Stop! Unfair!” Julia complained sharply. “Then there is Detective Murdoch…”

Mick’s eyes narrowed. “I did warn you.” 

“Yes...well, I see what you mean about him.” She hadn’t intended to sound so defensive. She complained all about it to Mick last night and it took until this morning to calm down and understand he might have been trying to help her. “He is awfully, shall we say, focused. And annoying…” she paused, calculating if it was a good idea to ask the next question. “What do you know about him? I mean, if I am to work with him in the short run, I’d feel better if I knew more about him.”

“Other than his excellent reputation for solving crime? I hardly had occasion to socialize with the man,” Mick objected with a grin. “The youngest detective on the force. I’ve seen him testify; he is quite clear and firm on the stand. Defense counsel hate going up against him.”

Julia grinned back, trying to engage Mick into a small conspiracy. “I want to know… just...more about the man beneath the badge.”

Mick shrugged, giving her a bemused look. “My impression of Detective Murdoch is that he is intense in all he does -- and intensely private. Is he giving you a hard time?” she asked with more concern than humour. “Remember, Julia, you don’t work for Detective Murdoch -- you work for the city and the city managers, so don't let him get under your skin.” 

She decided she’d better drop it before Mick got suspicious.  _ As for Detective Murdoch getting under my skin _ ... _ Ha! That’s never going to ever happen _ . She made a gay flick of her hand. “That is neither here nor there. Help me determine what exactly I can do, and in which order, to catch and convict the person or persons responsible for all these deaths.” 

Julia showed Mick what she had accomplished so far, and the long list of what to do. “At least help me figure out where to start, with the limited resources I have.”

Mick got up to check the supply of reagents, using a practiced eye. “Nothing much changes around here. Always squeaking by,” she sighed, picking up one bottle after another. “I would advise you to perform tissue samples and lab work on the Jacksons first, because it is necessary to determine if they are alcoholic like the others, and if they are victims of poisoned alcohol or not. If not, you must proceed to a full autopsy for natural causes versus foul play. Normally, you only continue until you have an unambiguous cause of death. More than that is considered to be a waste of time and resources.” 

They talked back and forth for half an hour until Mick excused herself. Before leaving, Mick made a brilliant suggestion for what to do when supplies ran out. 

**********

**8:10 AM, Monday, June 26th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4, after roll call.**

The office was filled with dark blue wool serge uniforms and the smell of sweat. It was already almost eighty degrees outside. “Gentlemen, here are the results of our investigation so far,” Murdoch pointed to the chalkboards full of notations. 

“When did you have the time to do that, Murdoch? You sleep here again?” Brackenreid’s voice boomed, prompting a guffaw from Higgins which earned the young man a glare from Hodge and an elbow from Crabtree. Brackenreid waved a sheaf of papers around to get air moving. 

Murdoch adjusted his desk fan. He had not been able to persuade Brackenreid to allow one of Mr. Carrier’s air-cooling units in the building, but thought he was wearing his boss down -- or the scorching, humid Toronto summer was. 

He was not going to discuss his sleeping habits. “This will help us determine when and where a common source for the adulterated alcohol was distributed in Toronto...or, at minimum, focus our investigation. I have included Mr. and Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Landswell until we can develop enough evidence to exclude them from the rest of the victims. Dr. Ogden determined the Jacksons were poisoned as well, but not the method or the toxin.” As expected, Crabtree was taking copious notes, Hodge and Worseley were inspecting the map and Higgins looked slightly baffled.

He continued. “We are operating under the assumption the victims had to acquire the alcohol from a single original source, even accounting for passing it along to one another.”

“And that source is Rocco Perri, the number one bootlegger in Ontario!” Brackenreid announced. “We have to know when and where that poisoned hooch came to Toronto.” 

He muzzled his own objections and went back to his chart. “Yes, well. We will start with Conrad Landswell. Dr Ogden confirmed Mr. Landswell expired at 8:45 Friday night and was poisoned with strychnine, which was put in his bottle of cognac along with a small amount of methyl-alcohol. We do not know if it was placed there for the purpose of suicide or homicide.”

“What about an accident, sir?” Hodge asked.

“An accident is a possibility if Mr. Landswell was trying to combine two bottles of alcohol not knowing one was poisoned.” He went on to explain about Brucine and strychnine.

Worseley interrupted. “Then why did he drink it if it was that bitter?” 

“Mr. Landswell was keeping up appearances, important for him to be seen drinking from a bottle with a good pedigree!” Crabtree guessed. 

“Precisely. Keep in mind Dr. Ogden has yet to complete all the required pathology and chemical analysis, so it is possible  _ all _ the alcohol-related deaths have a specific chemical composition in common, giving us one interconnected case.” Murdoch knew Brackenreid was getting ready to object, so he moved along to cut him off. “We need to find out where Strychnine and or its associated chemical Brucine can be acquired. If not a mass poisoning, then we must find someone who had access to a small quantity of it, and a motive to specifically poison Conrad Landswell with it.” 

He continued. “Hodge? What do you have on the other victims and more specifically about Mr. Knox?”

“Sir. All the evidence collected by the other station houses has been brought in. I dispatched the alcohol containers over to the morgue. The only problem is this Knox fellow. No container or bottle was identified for him. I will search today, hopefully it hasn’t disappeared,” Hodge said.

Brackenreid interrupted by coming to the fore, standing before his men. “Listen up. Knox may have wound up dead in a gutter from the drink, but at one time he was one of us...In the war he was military police. So, I expect all of you to give respect for all the victims, not just the gentry, understood?”

There were nods all around. Brackenreid relaxed fractionally. “We caught a break last night, lads. Two of Perri’s gang were picked up and are in the cells at station house five. I sent a wireless there this morning and those two miscreants are going to be brought over here for interrogation. I demand complete secrecy about this -- just the six of us. I’ll rip the hide off any of you if word of this gets out, understood?” More head nodding. Brackenreid looked each man in the eye. “Make sure we release the catch from overnight in our own cells before they arrive. Right then. Carry on.” 

“Thank you, sir. Crabtree, what about the Jacksons?” Murdoch asked.

Crabtree opened his notebook and pushed pages aside until he came to the right one. “Josiah and Mildred Jackson, both aged forty-five, no children, lived at the Smalls Hotel since 1918. Worked long hours, kept mostly to themselves. They run an antique store off Jarvis which opened in 1916; before that they only did small trade.” He paused to get a set of large ledgers off his desk. “I went around this morning, collected the accounting books. The Jacksons owned the shop and a small warehouse. No employees. No creditors of note. Yesterday I got to their solicitor, who divulged the contents of their Last Will and Testament to me last night: Mrs. Jackson’s elderly aunt in Mimico will inherit. She may have helped them set up the shop in the first place, selling her worldly goods for her, as it were.” Crabtree paused again, looking up from his notes. “Sir. It is early yet of course, but I can find no one with motive to kill them. They appear to be generally harmless people.” 

“Don’t they all?” Brackenreid scoffed. “Follow the money, sunshine, for a motive. Antique dealer sounds like a fencing operation to me. Crabtree, look more closely at the books, get an accountant from city hall if you have to. What about motive for our Mr. Landswell, who, by the way, Dr. Ogden says is not likely part of the other alcohol deaths?” 

Murdoch winced, hoping he covered it up so the men did not see him do that behind his superior’s back. “We are awaiting confirmation on that, sir,” he said mildly. “Barring suicide or a ghastly accident, we are investigating money or woman trouble as the motive for his murder. Higgins, today you have three priorities.” He paused for the constable to get a fresh notebook page. “Firstly, please go to the banks as soon as they open and collect more detailed information on Mr. Landswell’s finances. Then your next stop is to find this Miss Edwina Virgil. Here is a recent address.” He passed the envelope over. “Please find out what you can about her first, then invite her down to the station house.”

“Is this gal a suspect? You think she blipped him off, Detective?” Higgins asked, sounding concerned.

“I hope she can positively identify Conrad Landswell’s body, and yes, she is a possible suspect if she is the lady who recently broke things off with Landswell.” He waited until Higgins wrote that down. “Lastly, you are to investigate more about what Mr. Knox has been doing since the war. Start with the pension office. He served honourably his entire hitch, was wounded, so he may have been awarded a pension.” When Higgins stopped his pencil, Murdoch gave out the last assignments.

“Hodge, you help Higgins with investigating Knox. I want to know where he has been in the two weeks before his death.” Murdoch still wanted a seasoned officer at Higgins' elbow. “Worseley, you get me a list of all the legitimate distilleries who denature alcohol and ask what formula they use in the process. Do not let on you are looking for Brucine specifically. Understood?”

“Aye, sir.” Lorne Worseley, who was just the sort of affable man to charm information out of the distillery managers, bobbed his curly red head. 

Murdoch took stock of his men. He saw the strain on them and hesitated to add more, yet honesty compelled him to do so. “Gentlemen, while you work, keep in mind we are not merely solving a series of brutal deaths, we are trying to get to the bottom of all of this to prevent any more poisoned alcohol from entering Toronto and killing anyone else!” 

*********

**The Morgue**

Armed with Mick’s sage advice, Julia immediately went back to work on the Jacksons’ liver samples to see if they showed a history of alcohol abuse. If there was any, it was not grossly detectable under her ancient microscope. She set about testing their blood samples by rationing what remained of her reagents. The first test turned out to be a waste because results for organic vs. inorganic elements were inconclusive. Next, she next tested for Strychnine, looking for a link to Landswell. 

_ There was none! _

Gathering the remaining supplies, she tested for the presence of wood alcohol.  _ Also negative _ . 

Scowling, she pushed herself away from her bench, calling for Jack to bring out the body of Mrs. Jackson. There was no avoiding it now; she’d have to investigate beyond a simple liver sample obtained via incision and sampling. Desperate to avoid a full autopsy requiring time she didn’t have, she decided to use stomach contents and digestive tract for time of death, then examine their lungs, following her first guess the poison had been inhaled.

_ It had to be it? Right? _

She got sleeve garters out and slung a heavy apron around her waist. “Might as well not spoil my new outfit on the first day, eh?” she muttered to Mildred Jackson, certain the lady would understand.

Julia used her bone cutters and saw for the task, opening the chest to reach the lungs, removing one and bringing it to her workbench. Sectioning the tissue, she immediately saw gross changes indicating irritation and pulmonary edema. That and the reddened colour of the skin indicated carbon monoxide to her.

_ Finally! A glimmer of good news _ . She took another lung sample for toxicological confirmation, since the initial blood work was inconclusive for inorganic vs organic compounds.

“Jack? Please return the organs to Mrs. Jackson as I showed you while I work on her husband.” He was young and eager to please, for which she was grateful. Julia stretched, then went to get Mr. Jackson, repeating the process she used on his wife, hoping to find the same thing, excited to be on to an answer.

She next went after time of death, comparing stomach contents, body temperature and  _ rigor mortis _ to arrive at her conclusion even though Mick had told her she did not have to do so much. Detective Murdoch’s reminder about being prepared for testifying in court propelled her to excess.

Julia made preliminary notes for her reports and immediately stored the samples. She could try for a test of  carboxyhemoglobin in the venous blood, if she could get the ancient spectrometer to work.  She doffed her apron and went to her office to telephone Detective Murdoch to inform him of the results immediately, telling herself she was not merely doing so for Detective Murdoch’s approval.

******* 

“ _ Station House number four. Constable Crabtree speaking.” _

Julia tried not to be disappointed. “Constable Crabtree, it’s Dr. Ogden. I have results Detective Murdoch is definitely going to want to hear. Is he in? Can you connect him to me?”

_ “I’d love to, Doctor, but he’s conducting an interview. Can I... I take a message or send a constable over for the report?”  _ he asked helpfully. 

“It’s all right, Constable. I’ll bring it over myself shortly,” she answered and rang off.

Telling herself her information was critical and time-sensitive, she decided to stretch her muscles, stopping at the water closet to glance at her reflection before leaving. Her new hair style caught her off guard -- she’d forgotten about it after Mick’s approval earlier that morning.

Julia crossed the laneway from the City Morgue, to Station House No. 4 which fronted on Wilton Street. The pavement radiated heat like an oven outside, making her hasten to the thin strip of shade offered by the side of the brick Station House wall. Once she gained the Station House entry hall, it took awhile for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior, which was only mildly cooler than the street. She’d only been inside once before to meet Inspector Brackenreid, the day she was taken around to meet all the Inspectors and familiarize herself with the police services. 

The thirty-odd-year-old Station House showed a great deal of wear and tear. The space was jammed with battered desks, the floors and woodwork were gouged, and the waiting bench no longer had a sheen to the wood. No matter where she looked there were dingy beige walls and dark wood paneling. A pair of glass-walled offices were also painted in deep colours -- the detective’s was dark green, and the inspector’s was burnt orange of all things.  _ Hideous.  _ All in all she found it decidedly dirty and dreary. The cool morgue with its white tile walls and bright, high windows was starting to look better with the bonus -- for a Toronto summer -- of the walk-in. 

_ The occupants never mind. _ She swallowed a giggle to appear professional, surveying the men who gaped at her.  _ Now, who can help me?  _

“Constable Crabtree,” she waved and approached. He was expertly typing at one of the large partner desks next to the inspector’s office. The machine was as old as the one in her morgue office, yet it was in excellent working order -- no sticky keys. She made a mental note to ask who serviced it so she can get hers working better. 

“Ah, Dr. Ogden. Er...er...the Detective is still interviewing a…a suspect.” Constable Crabtree told her nervously. 

_ He’s trying not to stare at me, dear man.  _ She gave him a bold smile. “I hope you can tell me how long the Detective is going to be? I have information pertinent to one of his cases to deliver, personally if possible.” Julia did not quite trust yet giving information to one of the constables, even the bright and engaging Constable Crabtree, who might not understand the implications. And she knew if Detective Murdoch had questions she needed to be there to answer them immediately. 

“Sorry, Doctor. He took the second suspect in a... a few minutes ago. You’re free to wait of course, if you are not busy, unless you’d like me to take your report for the Detective and leave it on his desk?”

Julia considered and rejected it. “Is the Inspector here?”

“I’m sorry again, Doctor. Most of the lads are out on their assignments and the inspector is at a meeting. I... I dunno when he will be back. Soon I imagine. As for me, as soon as I finish this report, I am off again myself.” He fed an extra inch of paper into his machine and pounded out the last few sentences, withdrawing the paper in a satisfied flourish. After straightening the pages, he signed them and placed them in a folder. “Detective Murdoch does not like to be disturbed when he is in the middle of an interrogation. I would not advise it, not unless the station house is burning down, and even then, I’d have to think about it,” he said with a grin.

His smile, she noticed, was mischievously lopsided. 

“However, if you wait outside the interview room, right down that hallway there…” he pointed past the water cooler and time clock, “You might be able to catch his eye.” He stood and gathered his helmet and papers. “Please excuse me, Doctor.” 

_Well,_ _this might be interesting._

Julia went down the hallway past a couple closed doors until she came to a sign which stated: “Interview.” She heard voices coming through the door, one of which she recognized as Detective Murdoch’s. In the dark hallway, someone had turned the lights off. Just past the interview room door was a piece of glass covered by a metal grill. Curious, she peaked around again, fascinated by being on the see-through side of what was obviously a transparent mirror. She could view what was happening, yet from inside the brightly lit room, the glass would be completely reflective. 

She edged back farther to peer through the glass, lingering to watch the detective work, chastising herself as a voyeur, but staying all the same. The room was small, wood-paneled, containing a rectangular wooden table and four chairs, two on each side. Detective Murdoch and his suspect sat opposite each other. An overhead light cast harsh shadows on the pair of men, shading Detective Murdoch’s cheekbones, making his eyes a deep mask with a curtain of lashes covering his eyes, rendering them unreadable. She wondered if that was deliberate.

She was completely entranced watching Detective Murdoch lead his quarry through a series of questions. She began to understand his method -- getting the man to tell his story, then advancing the time frame or going back to the beginning, assessing whether or not the truth was being given -- or how much of a lie was being told. The ostensibly mild, proper and self-righteous detective displayed no small amount of deviousness, manipulating the man into a corner with questions and using the suspect’s own answers against him. Parry and  _ riposte _ .

She thought he looked to be in perfect control -- a sleek, focused predator stalking his prey. What she witnessed disturbed her -- and, were she to be honest thrilled her as well, making her insides come alive pleasingly. 

_ “Mr. Grenaldo, by your own admission you are an associate of Mr. Perri’s. You have confessed to supplying illegal alcohol to the speakeasy where we arrested you.”  _ Detective Murdoch told the man, in what was superficially a reasonable tone of negotiation.  _ “You can help yourself by helping us. Surely you can have no loyalty to a man who can poison people at random?” _

_ “Prove it, copper! Besides, what do I care for the boozehounds who bought it? Serves ‘em right,” the suspect said sarcastically.  _

In a rapid move, Detective Murdoch leaned over a large wooden table and snatched the suspect’s collar, bringing him forward over the table.  _ “Men’s and women’s lives, Mr. Grenaldo. Rocco Perri is the biggest bootlegger in Ontario and now he has become a mass murderer with you as his accomplice!” _

What happened next surprised her even more. 

_ “Don’t you get it, Murdoch?”  _ The wiry man with a pale scar on the side of his jaw reared back and shouted, eyes round and wild, spittle flying. He shoved the table so hard it knocked into the detective’s thighs, jerking himself away and sending Murdoch momentarily off balance. __

_ “Take my confession an’ blow it out yer ear! You think yer gonna do exactly what? Throw me in yer cells? The Don Jail? Ha! I’m here on a minor beef. Yer not goin’ ta’ scare me. I dunno Rocco Perri personal like -- but I know he’s a scary bastard. He takes care of his own problems. You won’t kill me -- but he will if I spill. Which I ain’t. And lemme tell you this much Murdoch -- he’s p’robly already got you in his sights. Watch yer back because you won’t see it commin’.”  _

Julia gasped, stepping back from the mirror instinctively, even though she knew the man could not possibly see her. Embarrassed at being startled, her hands forming fists, she turned and stalked away from the door to get as much distance as possible from that odious man.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**11:00 AM, Monday, June 26th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

“...Which is exactly my bloody point!”

Murdoch stopped in his tracks, embarrassed to have barged into Brackenreid’s office when the inspector was already engaged in an interview. He expected Dr. Ogden to be there, not a young man in a vest and shirtsleeves. 

“My apologies, sir.” He tried to back out, but his boss crooked two fingers in his direction for him to stay. He darted his eyes through the glass partition into the heart of the station house, looking for the coroner, impatient to hear her results -- considering he emptied his own supply of chemical and toxicological testing material and sent them across the way to her office. 

He hoped she put it to good use. 

“...Don’t tell  _ me,  _ it’s Murdoch who should hear it,” Brackenreid was telling the man.

Murdoch nearly choked when the man turned around -- it was Dr. Ogden sporting chin-length hair. Seeing her long legs encased in men’s trousers alone was a revelation. No lady appeared that way in public, and in combination with short hair she was astonishing … in a disconcerting way. Since he was unable to think of anything which was even close to an appropriate response, he just stood awkwardly, while Brackenreid waggled his eyebrows behind the doctor’s back. 

“Murdoch, have a seat,” Brackenreid ordered.

Head spinning, he sat.

“Gentlemen, regarding the Jacksons, I have confirmed the time of death as around 7 pm, using three different indicators. I can say neither of them consumed alcohol of any kind and there were no traces of strychnine in their systems, which distinguishes them from both Mr. Landswell and the other bootleg-booze deaths. I found evidence of inhaled poison in both Mr. and Mrs. Jacksons’ lungs.” 

Murdoch discovered if he just listened to her voice, or focused on her eyes, it helped him concentrate. He took in some air to speak. 

She must have anticipated his question because she continued talking. “I must wait for more chemical reagents and testing supplies, but my first guess, due to the lungs and the reddish tinge of their skin, is carbon monoxide.” 

“Nothing else, Doctor?” She appeared more certain than he was; CO may be the most obvious, but not the only possibility. “Do you have an opinion of how the carbon monoxide was delivered?” 

“That is hardly my area, Detective, and it will be days before I am able to complete full autopsies and lab work on the remainder of the men and women in my morgue.” He saw her take on a certain smugness. “But, gentlemen, I worked on another angle for you regarding their deaths which might prove helpful to you.” She brought out a folded sheet from her pocket. “Dr. McDaniels gave me the idea. I have your victims listed in the most likely order in which they died -- which is not the order in which their bodies were found, by the way. I believe the first deaths were as early as last Tuesday night, which makes the first consumption of the alcohol adulterated with methyl-alcohol likely a week ago on Monday.”

“Excellent work, Doctor Ogden,” Brackenreid accepted her typewritten list with enthusiasm. “We are going to root out those Italian bastards, every one of them.”

“Surely not every person of Italian descent is suspect, Inspector?” she asked. 

“I don’t trust any of ‘em. Too foreign to fit in, if you ask me -- and the food is inedible. Murdoch will that list help you pinpoint an entry point and source for the poison?”

“It will.” He was impressed at her ingenuity, already thinking how he will use that information.  _ Perhaps a new chart… _

“Yes,” she added. “Denaturing means chemicals were added to distilled alcohol to render it unpalatable, therefore un-drinkable, to then be used for medical or industrial applications. They use a particular formula. The chemists who adulterate the alcohol, or denature it, get paid more by criminals to subsequently _remove_ the added poisons to make them consumable again, than they are paid by the original and legitimate purveyors in the first place.” 

“What a mess.” Brackenreid sounded disgusted.

Murdoch agreed wholeheartedly. “Yes. And, Doctor, thank you. We are consulting with local distilleries about their specific formulas and quantities of chemicals with which they denature alcohol. When I get your analysis of the tainted alcohol we can match it with a specific distillery.” He saw her jaw tighten. She expected a better reception from him, he assumed, and probably an apology for his remarks yesterday. 

He rose to escort her to his office and try to eke out that apology in private. “Uh…Doctor, if I may have a word with you…? I...er...understand you are limited by lack of resources. When you do get the required materials, may we have the exact cause of death for the Jacksons first thing?” 

She just looked at him with a hard expression, placing her hands in her trouser pockets. “It’s on the list, Detective.” She nodded at Brackenreid. “Inspector.” Then she sailed out. 

His boss watched her leave,  _ perhaps a little longer than was proper _ , clearly remaining entranced by the new coroner, Murdoch noticed. He ignored the fact he himself had watched her exit as well.

_ Well, Brackenreid did like feisty women.  _ Murdoch made a loud noise, which might have sounded like a harrumph. “Sir. I hope she understands she cannot wear that...that get-up to court! I am surprised she is not using more, um...discretion.” He thought advertising her social deviance was not a great idea. __

_ Last a week? If word of it gets to the mayor she’ll be out as coroner before the day is over -- and my investigation will be a basket case because of it.  _ He harrumphed again.

“Relax, Murdoch. That get-up is practical for what the doctor has to do -- can you imagine rousting bodies or digging into a corpse in a frilly dress? Plenty of women wore trousers in the war -- the smart ones at least. You know this. What she does isn’t much different from what they were doing at the front,” Brackenreid chuckled. “So... the Jacksons are definitely not like Mr. Landswell nor Knox, or the rest of the poor alkies.” 

“I concur, sir. I already have an idea about what killed the Jacksons. I will be going back to their apartment when you and I are finished here to test my theory., and it does not involve sewer gasses.”

“I bet the manager will be happy to learn that.”

“Not necessarily, sir.” He was certain Mr. Crumb was going to be quite upset, if his guess was right -- and it was not carbon monoxide either. “As for Mr. Landswell, I believe it is murder and the murderer was trying to hide his, or her, deed -- one more tree in the forest, as it were -- hoping to make it look like just another death by illegal liquor. We require more physical evidence. It is too bad Dr. Ogden does not have enough resources to get her job done with alacrity, er...especially since it holds up our job as well.” He knew his boss’ weakness was flattery and at this point he was so desperate to save his case he had no compunctions to stoop low. “I thought perhaps with your influence...” Brackenreid scowled, telling Murdoch he had overplayed his hand, so he backtracked. “They are asking you to oversee these investigations… sir.”

“I get your point.” Brackenreid raked a hand through his brilliantined cap of thick red strands. “I am going to rattle a few cages for us, get some money freed up for the morgue, considering the mayor demands this wrapped up _ tout suite, _ ” he promised. “We still have a load of cases to tie around Rocco Perri’s neck and I will use that to pry the purse open. What did you get out of his two gang members?”

Murdoch crossed his arms. “Not much sir. The second man told me Rocco Perri already knows we are trying to connect him to the poisoned alcohol. Considering how tightly held the knowledge is, how did Perri find out?” 

Brackenreid only grunted. 

“He implied Mr. Perri knows my name and is going to, well, essentially kill me, if I keep up the investigation.” Murdoch was not particularly worried about the threat; it worried him more that news traveled so fast, even Perri’s distant operatives were in on it. “It might be bluster or bluff; you know how suspects like to posture or threaten when there is nothing else they can do. The problem is we have no physical evidence at all of any connection to Mr. Perri for these poisoned alcohol deaths.” He let that sit between them, knowing the inspector understood the dilemma. 

“I think the threat against you means we are on the right track, Murdoch. Keep digging. I don’t need to tell you to be careful.”

##################

**11:10 AM, Monday, June 26th, 1922**

**City Morgue**

Julia’s good mood from knocking Detective Murdoch down a peg was short-lived as she returned to the morgue only to find yet another body waiting for her -- a bloody mess under a sheet.

“Jack?” she called over, “what have we here? I thought our establishment usually required reservations.”

Jack grinned. Putting his mop down, he came over to her. “Compliments of Station House No. 9, Doctor. The constable just said she was found this morning in an alleyway; an unwitnessed death and no name to go with her. It took a while to clear the scene. I guess they called a morgue van from the garage to bring her over.”

“Any other information?” Julia was irritated a body was essentially dumped on her doorstep. She saw Jack pale and she instantly regretted confronting him. “Sorry Jack. Not your fault. Was there anything else, any paperwork or evidence for me? The name of our guest?”

“No, Doctor. I guess she is unidentified. The constable said Keele Street Station, number nine, found her and Detective Pearce is handling the case, if there is one.”

“If there is one?” Julia looked again at the red-stained sheet and back again to Jack, wondering if he was already adopting her sense of humour.

Jack shrugged. “Sorry, Doctor. They require cause of death before doing anything more.” 

_ Detective Murdoch demands rather much and other detectives appear lackadaisical by contrast. _ She checked the clock high on the white tile wall, calculating her tasks and what she had time for. Without testing material she was stuck. She could not even unload Mr. Landswell until there was a positive identification. 

“Jack, will you please go to the chemist’s supply house and find out what the hold-up is? Could you do that for me? I will keep myself entertained while you are gone.”

He wiped his hands, got his cap and was gone in no time. Julia retrieved her apron and adjusted the gurney to get it into the best light.

“ _ Toronto the Good, _ my foot…” she muttered. “All right, Torontonians, I’m going to ask you to stop harming one another and yourselves for about a week,” she said aloud into the empty room, as she readied her tools for another post-mortem. Other than sheer stubbornness, she could not understand for the life of her why she didn’t quit this job. It was overwhelming for one person! 

Then she imagined having to tell her father she couldn't handle it…

_ Not on my life! _

Sighing exhaustedly, she pulled back the sheet to view the body. The blood-soaked end of the sheet revealed a head with obliterated features. 

_ No one is going to identify her this way.  _

“Good God, who are you and what happened to you?” she said as she went over the rest of the body looking for answers. She hadn’t seen anything so gruesome since the war, immediately pushing those memories back so she could concentrate on what was in front of her now. This was a petite woman, perhaps in her late twenties to early thirties, judging by the texture of the skin she could see and the woman’s overall physique. There were so many obvious broken bones even showing through her thin printed cotton dress, she had to get a clipboard to list them. Julia’s mind started bringing up possibilities: Was she beaten? Crushed? Run over by a vehicle or horse? Did she fall? 

Not knowing the circumstances was maddening. 

Wishing she had not sent Jack away for supplies, she cut the clothing off herself, did her initial physical observations and measurements, collected samples, then started washing away the accumulated blood and debris from the body. Unfortunately, there were no birthmarks or scars to help with identification. Her next task was grimmer -- a complete catalogue of broken bones: clavicle, right shoulder, right arm, neck, both hands mangled, half her ribs, both legs, both knees...and a crushed skull. The soft tissue and internal injuries were going to be commensurate. The damage did not look like it was inflicted by a bat, pipe or rock. There were no marks indicating a traffic accident.

She ran causes of death against what the body told her. There was no trauma to the back of her body -- no abrasions nor direct injuries. What was left was a massive blunt force trauma which told her this woman fell face-first from a significant height. 

“Of course, in this white-tiled nineteenth-century excuse for a modern pathology lab, there is no x-ray equipment. Even the troops at the front in France had Madame Curie’s mobile x-ray stations!” she muttered to the room. Julia had marveled at the “Little Curies” as they were called and had even once met the famed scientist in the field, where her invention saved countless lives overseas.

“The morgue does not even possess equipment to take and develop basic photographs!” 

She caught herself whining. Out loud.  _ Enough! _ Straightening up, Julia retrieved her clippers. “I'm sorry about this,” she said as she removed the woman’s hair so she could see the skin, to look for an unexplained head strike, inconsistent with a fall, just as her morgue reference suggested she do. Finding nothing obvious, she searched for anything which might look like a defensive wound, or minute evidence of tissue under the nails, and found nothing. She looked for other bruises, as if the woman had been shoved or held tightly by hands. More nothing. Julia took the final blood samples, knowing the next task was to open the body up. 

Closing her eyes, she thought of the young woman.  _ Was this an accident?  _ In the heat, people had taken to sleeping on rooftops for relief from the stifling temperatures. _ Did she fall off?  _ _ A homicide? A suicide?  _

“How the Hell am I supposed to figure that out?” she asked the white-tiled ceiling. 

Julia hoped it was not suicide. Exhaling, she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and thought back to a difficult time in her own life, and how she briefly contemplated ending it all, before choosing another solution to her problems. She looked down at the anonymous woman and tenderly covered her up. The full autopsy was going to have to wait.

Grunting in disgust, she grabbed her hat and announced to the empty room she would be checking her mail then taking a late lunch as if that was going to dispel unpleasant memories or make the next steps more bearable. 


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**5:00 pm, Monday afternoon**

**Station House No. 4**

Inspector Brackenreid stalked in front of the evidence chalkboards in the bullpen, a tortoiseshell shoe horn in his hands like a baton, reviewing his troops. “Men, before I go home, I want an update on what we have been paying you lot overtime for.” He enjoyed full command this afternoon with an extra swagger in his step since coming back from a successful meeting with Mayor Maguire. Murdoch and Crabtree automatically adopted an ‘at ease’ posture, a leftover from when they served under Captain Brackenreid. Higgins shuffled his feet, Worseley was rigid, and Hodge, old enough to have practically come with the station house when the walls were installed, let none of it bother him. 

“Crabtree, tell us about the Jacksons,” Brackenreid instructed with a jab of the shoehorn.

“Sirs. I combed ten years of records with an accountant. No unaccounted-for deposits or withdrawals, no financial problems. They had an upswing during the war, came out of it with no debt. No threats. No legal jeopardy. No one I can find with a strong enough motive, nor means, to poison them. No one came or left from their apartment. No suspects at all, in fact.” Crabtree returned a perplexed glance when Murdoch smiled at him.

“Thank you, Constable.” Murdoch nodded in Crabtree’s direction. “I think we can officially declare the case closed. The first guess about cause of death was carbon monoxide. Today, I found evidence of calcium cyanide at their apartment, being used as a fumigator for vermin. Actually, Crabtree, you put me on to it. The manager, Mr. Crumb, eventually confessed the entire building had been treated, but the windows in the Jacksons’ apartment had never been opened to air out the space. Dr. Ogden will verify time and cause of death when she completes her lab work.” He went to his chalk board and erased the entire section regarding the Jacksons. “I will notify the Crown Prosecutor who may wish to file charges for negligence.”

Brackenreid set his shoehorn down, retrieved an apple from his jacket pocket and bit down. “How are we doing on Henry Knox and Rocco Perri?”

Higgins stepped forward nervously, opening his notebook to read. “Mr. Knox hailed from Niagara Falls. He came to Toronto in ‘17 after he got one of his pins warped in the war. He had enough scratch to keep him going for a while, but he was a butter and egg man with his dough, ended up in a flop, crubbing smokes. Got in trouble for orphan paper.” 

The inspector rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Higgins! Use the King's English. You are from  Gaspé, not Botany Bay!” Brackenreid demanded.

Higgins looked rattled; Murdoch took pity on him and translated, not bothering to point out the irony of Thomas Brackenreid’s own idioms peppering his every conversation. “Mr. Knox had cash when he came back from the war after his leg injury healed and spent his money frivolously on alcohol and gambling, ending up in a low rent rooming house unable to even buy cigarettes. He was picked up for passing a bad cheque.” Murdoch gestured at Higgins to continue.

Higgins cleared his throat, getting time to choose words. “He drew a small pension, barely enough for his room. When he worked, it was as a driver. No family to speak of. No squeeze...er, no lady-friend. He did a stint at the House of Industry on Elizabeth and Elm Streets in the Ward, but was turfed...er, tossed out because he couldn't stay off the sauce.”

“Hodge?” Brackenreid asked. 

“I spent the morning in the neighborhood, and at Mr. Knox’s haunts.” Hodge brought out his own notes. “Knox was known by the locals to be someone who was pleasant enough when he was sober, and he had a penchant for wheeling and dealing. No one I spoke with knew he’d served in the war, which is odd because there is always some charity or other which will help a veteran, especially one who was wounded. Minor legal trouble when he was stupefied, always scrounging for money; used the City Baths on Wednesday or Saturday free days. Mostly kept to himself when he wasn’t shooting dice. He’d lived in the last rooming house for seven months, was behind in his rent and his bookie was looking for him. I can trace his movements fairly well because he kept to his routine, only having trouble with one day last week.” Hodge closed his notebook. 

Hodge stepped in to rescue Higgins. “This afternoon I finally found an empty glass bottle in the trash next to Knox’s rooming house. The new tenant confirmed he cleared out what Knox left and threw it away. No fingerprints, because the bottle has been handled and smudged repeatedly, but a little liquid in it, so I sent it along to Dr. Ogden for testing.” 

“Excellent!” Murdoch was relieved. It meant he had another piece of physical evidence. If only he could connect them to Rocco Perri. “We now know the order and location of the deaths and addresses of the deceased. Tomorrow you canvas this area,” he pointed to his map with a neighborhood circled in red, “to determine when and where shipments of illegal alcohol are received and distributed. Constable Worseley, do you have the information on distilleries?” 

“I do. Gooderham and Worts are the biggest, of course. During the war they produced cordite, ketone and acetone for explosives, along with alcohol. They are still allowed to produce spirits. I have a list of seven other smaller distilleries which remain in production. I have done four interviews of lead chemists, four more to go. Frankly sir, what I have learned is that the chemicals for denaturing their alcohol keeps changing, depending on what’s cheapest or the government dictates, so there is no one standard formula a particular distillery always uses. Brucine is fairly common as is methyl alcohol.”

“Something to consider though…” Hodge spoke up.

“What is that?” Brackenreid asked. 

Murdoch was interested as well. John Hodge grew up in Toronto and the old cop’s knowledge of the city was second to none, so when he offered a comment it was always worth listening to. 

“These places are huge, sir. Factories acres in size. Hundreds of workers. If someone is redistilling alcohol to remove the poisons, they need a lot of room to do it. Someone like Rocco Perri must find land, equipment, and hide a big operation. I...er...I wonder who he is paying off…”

Brackenreid turned his glare in Murdoch’s direction, sending a silent warning about keeping a lid on the threat one of Perri’s minions made. Murdoch just shook his head.  _ Nothing the lads need to know _ . 

Higgins seemed excited. “I thought anyone could make bathtub gin.”

“No... We are talking about separating distilled spirits from the adulterants used to denature it. Methyl alcohol has a boiling point so close to ethyl alcohol it is extremely hard to separate via re-distilling, so the operation cannot be fly-by-night,” Murdoch explained to the group. He picked up his chalk, changing the subject quickly. “Now, we are still working on our other case, Mr. Landswell. We have almost all the necessary information.” He snuck a glance at his chalkboard. “Higgins, how did you do on motive today? You were to dig into Landswell’s finances.”

Higgins looked slightly more sure of himself for this part of his report. “Mr. Landswell’s books work out to be copacetic...I... I mean in order. His business is barely five years old. He wasn’t exactly skint, but he wasn’t flush either and he may have lied to his bankers, using one loan to pay another, and lied on his bid for the Toronto Transportation Commission about his ability to complete the work. But nothing more serious.”

“So, no money motive to do him in? Too bad. So, a woman and poison is it?” Brackenreid sounded disappointed

Murdoch understood: at least with money there was often a paper trail of some kind to follow. “Yes. We are considering a jilted lover theory.”

Higgins spoke up. “His gal, or I guess it is his ex-gal, Edwina Virgil, is here to identify the body. She’s waiting for you in the interview room.” 

“Good work!” Brackenreid praised the young constable.

Rightly so, Murdoch believed, but he was still exasperated. “Higgins! And you did not think to mention Miss Virgil first?” He was halfway out the door before he ever finished the sentence, calling over his shoulder to Crabtree: “Bring your notepad.”

******** 

“Miss Virgil. Thank you for coming in. My condolences for your loss.” Murdoch sat in the opposite chair, offering her a glass of water, which she sipped delicately, allowing him a moment to study her, his opening gambit accomplished -- getting her to accept something he gave her -- to make her feel obligated to give him something. Crabtree stayed discreetly out of the way, taking notes. 

“Thank you, Detective, most kind.” Her voice was deliberately flat. 

The woman was conservatively dressed, he’d almost say old-fashioned, with a fusty hat and none of a modern woman’s cosmetics. He estimated she was the wrong side of thirty with long, thin features and grim lips. Her hands held the purse in her lap as if she was strangling something. It might have been grief which made her appear ugly -- or guilt. He knew time, and his interrogation, would tell.

She continued. “I am only here to do my Christian Duty. I cannot in good conscience deny knowing him and I am prepared to identify him for the record. But save your condolences. I am sorry he is dead, but Conrad is the one who lost when he betrayed me.”

So -- no grief? He was interested in that. Was there a motive for murder in there? He examined the woman more closely, taking out his notebook to jot down any particulars. That grim mouth of hers could mean so many things. “I see. Would you care to explain?”

“He lied to me.” 

Murdoch sighed inwardly.  _ As if ‘he lied to me’ explained everything -- or anything at all. _ She was just as likely to lie to him if it suited her interests. “About what, Miss Virgil?” he prompted, knowing he’d have to patiently unwind this tight woman’s story. 

“I caught him cheating.” She bit this off as she said it. 

“How do you know he was cheating?”

“She sent him letters. Letters he did not want me to see.”

“And?” 

“I heard phone calls at his office.” 

He waited, deliberately letting her grow more anxious.

“Then she showed up! Oh, he tried to say it was nothing, but I saw the way she looked at him, all pleading with her eyes, and how desperate he was to hide her from me, how quickly he wanted her to leave when I arrived…”

“When was this?” A recent break up is more of a motive than a romance which cooled a while ago. 

“A week ago. Monday, the nineteenth. I came around to have luncheon with Conrad. It was a surprise...” 

There was a slight hitch in her voice, the first indication Murdoch had of a heart inside her armour. She  had cared for him.  _ Enough to kill?  _ He saw her jaw clamp shut in a great effort to control her emotions, cutting off any more conversation. He needed to get her talking again, so he poked at her feelings for the man. “It must have hurt to break it off with him.” He saw her posture change and got a short nod from her. Her eyes moistened now. He’d have to ascertain her whereabouts and if she had access to poisons. Higgins’ notes said she was a typist for a law office -- probably not too many chemicals there, but plenty in most households, as his investigation of the Jacksons’ apartment revealed. 

“What else was there to do, Detective? It was a matter of principle. I knew Conrad was not always on the up and up in business, but I thought…” She reached for the water and took another sip to help her composure. “I thought he was honest with  _ me. _ I knew something was wrong, but I… When he could not come up with a believable explanation for her, I knew my instincts were right. There was something between them.”

“Did you overhear any of their conversation, Miss Virgil?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I will never forget, Detective. She said, ‘You promised me. You cannot deny me now’…” Miss Virgil sat board-straight and her voice was hoarse. “Then Conrad said to her: ‘You silly girl, I owe you nothing’.” 

_ A betrayal.  _ Murdoch’s instincts were stirred. Miss Virgil confirmed what Higgins discovered about Landswell’s business acumen, but the presence of another suspect was most intriguing.

“Can you describe her for me?” he asked as casually as possible. Her eyes widened and he hoped he had not spooked her. 

She exhaled. “Twenty, twenty-one perhaps. Red hair.” She sucked her teeth. “Looked like a farm girl to me. And before you ask, no, I don’t know the hussy’s name.” 

He’d have to check, of course, but by the look of her, Murdoch thought if Edwina Virgil was going to do away with someone it would have been her rival, not Conrad Landswell. “Thank you, Miss Virgil. When you are ready, I will take you across to identify him,” he said gently. 

He scribbled a note to give to Higgins while she collected herself:  _ ‘Get all the rest of Landswell’s mail.’  _

As soon as she did her duty, Murdoch was going to ask about searching her house for poison. He was not looking forward to that.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**6:00 pm Monday, June 26th, 1922**

**City Morgue**

Julia had her speech ready that the morgue was not a hotel and could not indefinitely hold onto Mr. Landswell’s body, when a telephone call informed her  _ ‘they’ _ had finally located someone to give an official identification. Julia had Jack get Mr. Landswell out of the cooler before she told him to go home for the day. So, she was alone in the morgue when the delegation from Station House No. 4 presented themselves. 

_ ‘They’ _ turned out to be Detective Murdoch, Constable Higgins and a dour woman who looked none too pleased about the task being asked of her. Julia couldn’t say she blamed her.

“Are you prepared, Miss Virgil?” Julia asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” the woman replied and flinched upon seeing the body before quickly recovering.

Julia carefully folded the sheet back, revealing the deceased’s face. 

“Yes, it's him. Conrad Landswell. Is that all?” she whispered, looking at Detective Murdoch.

Julia saw the Detective glance her way, silently asking if there was anything else. She shook her head at him. 

“No, Miss Virgil,” he told the woman. “That is all. We will release his remains to Rosar-Morrison Funeral Home on Sherbourne Street immediately. Constable Higgins will see you home,” he explained. Miss Virgil allowed the young constable to escort her out of the building. But the detective stayed put, looking uncomfortable now. After witnessing the interrogation he conducted, she found it odd he ever lost his poise.

Julia turned her back on him, washing her tools in the sink. She’d hidden them under a towel so as not to upset Miss Virgil and hurried to get back to them if she was ever going to leave the morgue to get home at a decent hour. She still had more paperwork to finish as it was. 

“You’ll have to excuse me, Detective, my dance card is quite full…” she gestured to the rows of gurneys she had to deal with. She needed the undertaker right away to pick up Mr. Landswell, just to give her room for the anonymous woman whose body arrived this morning. The detective did not move. She let him stew for a minute, giving him her back.

He opened with: “I wish to apologize for my choice of words yesterday.” 

Julia was surprised how softly he spoke. “But you’re not sorry you said them.” 

“No. You are new and do not yet comprehend the political nature of the city coroner’s position.”

“Is that why you drove the last coroner out? His politics?” It was amazing how infuriating this man could be. She whirled to face him. “Well?” 

Instead of being abashed, he only blinked. He just stood there with pursed lips; stood there so long she thought she might have left him speechless.  _ Which felt so good _ . Unfortunately, he spoiled it by opening his mouth.

“No. Not his politics,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I apologize because I should have been gentler in my approach. You let the Inspector press you into saying something you were not yet ready to say. You must never do that. I apologize because my approach to you was not appropriate for a gentleman towards a lady.” 

“A _ lady? _ ” Julia gave him her back again, twisted the water taps off, wiping her hands dry and throwing the towel down. “I stopped carrying smelling salts long ago,” she quipped. “I am here as a pathologist. We are colleagues, Detective. I take your point though about equivocating...I shall have to remember for the future.” 

“Do you know anything else? About any of my cases?” he asked, giving her a level gaze. 

She ignored that -- being annoyed helped her feel bold. “Detective, since we’re being candid with one another, may I pose the next question? Do you treat me any differently from previous coroners because I’m a woman? You don’t have to, you know. I can take it,” she challenged him.

“No. I do not. I treat you as one who is performing capably so far, as Dr. McDaniels did before you. You are inexperienced, yet your instincts appear quite good. And you have joined the coroner’s office at an extraordinarily busy time.” 

He appeared so grave and sincere...

She almost laughed at him. Against her will, she decided she believed him. “I must add, Detective, I’m already starting to see why you call coroners to the scene. It would have been immensely helpful in this poor thing’s case.” She gestured at the sheet-covered form of her anonymous woman from this morning. 

“Another poisoning?” Detective Murdoch’s lips pinched, clearly both annoyed and worried. 

“Detective Pearce’s case. I promise I will have information for you when I get supplies.” 

He gave her a wan smile. “I do appreciate it. Until tomorrow, then.” He put his hat back on and tipped it, turning sharply on his heel to head for the door. 

“Oh, Detective!” Julia called after him. “The Jacksons...I have determined their cause of death is cyanide, not carbon monoxide.” 

“Have you?” He stopped at the top of the ramp. “Thank you for the confirmation. I believe you will find it was calcium cyanide, commonly found in pest fumigation products.” 

This time she saw it: he flashed her the briefest grin on his way out.  _ “Brazen bastard!”  _ she hissed at his back. It took a long minute for her to go from infuriated to amused. 

“How  _ did  _ he know that?” she asked the room, smiling at the puzzle. 

Julia’s lightened mood survived barely a quarter hour while she sat at her desk, leafing through the morgue’s tiny library’s sole legal reference, coming back to the paragraphs which she’d been worrying over all afternoon: 

_ ‘ _ _ To render cause of death as homicide, the medical examiner must reach his conclusion from direct autopsy results that the death was due to deliberate, human-caused violence. If the autopsy lacks sufficient evidence to show the death resulted from deliberate human action, even if there is evidence of possible homicide, this requires an "undetermined" ruling.’  _

The problem she was having is cause of death and manner of death doesn't just mean figuring out how a person died, it was also about understanding intent. Homicide, suicide and accidental all involve understanding the _ intent  _ behind the death. In this case, she just didn't know whose intention it was.

She snicked the book shut and sighed out loud. “I may have taken firsts in anatomy, dissection and in chemistry, but they did  _ not _ teach this part in medical school.” She knew the woman died from a fall. With a little math she might even figure out the height of the fall. But who was she, and  _ why _ did she fall? 

Julia pulled her autopsy report to her and flipped it open to what she typed earlier:  _ ‘Victim was gravida X-1’.  _ Then further down:  _ ‘Presence of large volume of motile semen in vagina and on cervix, indicating sexual relations prior to victim’s death.’ _ Julia noticed uncomfortable emotions edging into her awareness.  _ Who was this woman? Who will claim her if all I have is the dress she wore, an approximate height and weight, hair colour and a guess at eye colour from one remaining eye? Worse -- somewhere there might be a child who cried for his or her mother.  _

Then there was the sex act: was the sex consensual or was it rape? She’d seen no obvious signs of rape -- no tearing or bruising, but she knew that did not necessarily mean much.

Julia set her gaze on the closed door of the cooler, seeing through the metal to one particular, small body among the several jammed side by side inside the space. “It might mean the last person to see you alive was whoever you had relations with. Who was it? A lover? A killer? Both?” 

She caught herself talking out loud again and made a disgusted noise at her foolishness. Then started talking again anyways.

“How am I going to figure out what happened to you?” 

####### 

**7:00 pm, Monday June 26th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

“Sir, it's been a long day. I...I’m headed home,” Crabtree told him.

Murdoch glanced out his window in surprise. “Sorry. I forget daylight lasts longer in June.” 

Crabtree produced a small eye-roll and a tug at his collar. “Keeps things hot that way too. Why is your fan off? I’d be melting in here.”

Murdoch had his office window open and his shirt sleeves rolled up for some air. “It kept blowing my papers around.” His lips pinched, because it was unlikely the blizzard of papers on all the surfaces of his office looked organized in any way. “You are here past time. Go home. Brackenreid is serious about keeping costs contained. He'll take a stripe off of you if you have nothing to show for the extra hour.” 

“Nothing’s changed there. Cap’t Brackenreid always got more than he paid for.” Crabtree grinned. He came forward with a folder in his hand. “I typed up the report of your interview with Miss Virgil plus her official statement identifying Mr. Landswell’s remains, which I...I arranged to be removed from the morgue to the funeral home and out of Dr. Ogden’s, er...hair.” 

He gave Crabtree a sharp look -- was he making a comment about the doctor’s haircut, or was it merely a turn of phrase? Seeing the lopsided grin on his face, Murdoch took it for both. He arched his own eyebrows in response, but he wasn’t going to be pulled into the jest. He wasn’t going to be one to undermine her, even privately with his friend, considering her work and his investigation were now, for better or worse, inextricably bound up. 

“Thank you. I have nearly completed my own official police report on Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. You did well to make those observations about pesticides, and you’ll be glad to know you are mentioned in the report.”

“Thank you, sir, much obliged. Will it go to court do you think?”

“Do you wish to testify? Or are you trying to avoid it?” he said, half-jokingly.

“Not sure...not sure. Well, good night, sir. See you in the morning,” Crabtree replied and made to leave.

“Wait.” Murdoch called after him. “Regarding Mr. Landswell. If it is not Miss Virgil or the red-haired girl, if she exists, then who poisoned him? Perhaps a client gave him the cognac.” 

“And if the red-haired girl does not exist, that is a point against Miss Virgil.” 

He nodded -- Crabtree had guessed correctly. “Just because we found no poison connected to Miss Virgil does not negate the fact that she might have used it then disposed of it. Tomorrow, I am going to see if her alibi holds up. First thing in the morning, you go over Landswell’s datebook; work backwards and forwards from Friday June 16th through to Friday the 23rd and pin down who came and went from his place of business. Find who brought the cognac bottle  _ and  _ find that red-haired farm-girl Miss Edwina Virgil says she saw with Landswell. Then go through the boxes of business mail Higgins brought in, look for any correspondence which might be interpreted as a threat and match it up with that bottle of cognac appearing. Or perhaps it was a ‘peace offering’ after a disagreement, which wasn’t so peaceful.”

“Or congratulations for a contract signed. As in a bribe? I understand.” Crabtree eyed the chalk board and narrowed his gaze. “The lads and I will come up with something. What about all the other poor souls?”

Standing carefully so none of his papers were displaced, Murdoch stood next to Crabtree to get the same vantage point. The chalk board looked like something in a train station listing arrivals and departures, but all jumbled up. He had almost an excess of information and at the same time not nearly enough. “Brackenreid thinks the key to it all is through Howard Knox. So, while you head up investigating Mr. Landswell tomorrow, the rest of us will take on the illegal bootlegging side of things. You have the photographs of all the deceased developed?”

“Yes. On my desk.”

“Excellent. I’ll take a copy of each. We’ll use them to track everyone's whereabouts.”

“A...a fishing expedition, isn’t it sir?” 

“Precisely. The little fish should lead us to the distribution network as it were, and we see where it leads, to figure out where to strike to get the big fish, in this case, Rocco Perri.” 

George Crabtree gave him a sober regard. “Careful sir. When I was a lad in Newfoundland, I once saw a great big eagle get his claws into an equally big salmon, and the salmon just pulled him under. Never saw that bird again.” 


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**7:30 PM Monday June 26th, 1922**

**Sullivan Office Building**

Julia turned the engine off, got out of her motorcar and studied the street where she parked. Somewhere around the vaunted “Golden Hour” Julia found herself so far away from the morgue that it may as well not even be in Toronto anymore. Detective Pearce reluctantly gave her the address where the anonymous woman’s body was found, which turned out to be a cluttered blind courtyard formed by the backsides of five different buildings of varying heights. To her left was an alleyway barely wide enough for a donkey cart, and to her right was a wider but twisted laneway leading to a side street. All around her were closed doors, loading docks and dust bins, a few windows facing each other across the alleyway space. 

Julia stood exactly where the body had been found, craning her neck to peer up at the jumble of buildings, to the one whose upper floors were lit a glowing yellow by the western sun. Under her feet was a patchwork of dirt, cobblestones and bricks. It matched what she sampled off the woman’s clothes and body. While the majority of the blood and various bodily fluids had been washed away, she saw blood spatter on the side of one wall. 

From the damage to the woman’s body and using a chart she found in a morgue journal, she estimated death was due to a fall of between seventy and ninety feet. There was only one building tall enough, and in the right location. For a second she was caught off guard, her heart clenching, imagining the horrid fear and excruciating pain the poor woman felt. She did not do the calculation, but if the woman was conscious when she went over, the fall was long enough to be aware of the end coming. 

Composing herself with a breath and a stiff talking-to, she walked back to the main street to the front entrance of a seven-story brick office building. She pulled on the door handle, which did not budge. As it was after hours, it took some wrangling to get the janitor to allow her access to the roof. Somehow, she forgot she’d have to actually  _ walk  _ up all seven stories -- eight of you count the roof access -- when she was told the elevator was out of service. The stairwell was hot and stuffy which made her choice of changing into a dress for tonight’s expedition a blessing, especially with a leather bag slung over her shoulder, containing her personal Autographic Kodak camera. Trousers were perfect for the morgue where a skirt exposed her legs to a penetrating damp chill, but she was not envying men who had to contend with layers of fabric over every inch of their persons every day -- and walk up seven flights of stairs at the end of June. 

She opened the door to find a flat roof, surrounded by a tall parapet. A slight breeze ruffled her hair and skirt helping cool off the sweat she worked up. The view was unremarkable, although she thought at night it might have been pretty. Julia was caught again trying to imagine what the woman saw just before she went over the edge, when her skin prickled with the uncomfortable sense she was not alone. 

Julia swung around, immediately seeing a man also searching up here. Anxious thought hit her like a bolt.  _ What if he is the killer and I’ve stumbled onto him cleaning up the scene? _

But the man paid her no mind and wasn’t touching anything -- he was glancing around the scene, smoking a Sweet Cap cigarette.  _ Don't be ridiculous, _ she told herself.  _ He could merely be a business tenant, ending his long workday by visiting the roof for some air before going home. _ She settled her nerves by blowing out air through her lips. 

Physically, he was not particularly intimidating, shorter than her own five feet nine inches, slight in stature with thick, wavy black hair and black eyes shaded by a light brown straw boater. She calculated he was in his mid-thirties, a tradesman perhaps, dressed in brown tweeds. Once Julia made eye contact with him, she was bowled over by his intensity, her skin creeping with gooseflesh. 

“What d’you want?” the man asked, eyeing her suspiciously. 

She tried to imagine what Detective Murdoch would have said, but not having his mind for crime she decided careful honesty was the best approach. “I’m Doctor Julia Ogden, Toronto City Coroner. I’m here trying to determine the cause of death for someone in my morgue,” she replied. “May I ask who you are?”

The man held on to his suspicion. “Why d’you care?” He took a last drag on his smoke, then dropped it and ground it out with his shoe.

“Do you work in this building?” she countered. “Because if you do, you might be able to tell me who she was. Or you might know something about her death.”

He ignored her. “Was she murdered?  _ Was she? _ ” 

Julia was shocked at the harshness in his voice. She took an involuntary step back. “That is what I am trying to determine. Why do you ask?”

“Might be she hung around with the wrong crowd, see.  _ Sbaglio _ \-- how you say...a mistake? Or might be sending a message to someone else by hurting her.” 

_ A  _ message? _ To whom? What does  _ _ that _ _ mean?  _ she worried.  _ Who is this man??  _

Julia’s gut was uneasy again. Perhaps being alone on a roof after hours with a strange man who was somehow involved in a violent death was a bad idea. “I do not know. The possibilities are accident, murder or suicide,” she explained carefully, trying to remain calm and not excite the man. “I am up here to see if anything helps me determine which.” The man’s eyes narrowed. Seeing him scour the roof with his sharp gaze, she guessed he didn't miss much. “Sir, may I ask what your place in all this is?”

“Can you prove it?” He continued to block her questions. “Prove if someone killed her? Prove who it was that done this?” 

His persistence was annoying her as well as becoming more alarming. Despite the heat from the sun, a chill overtook her. “Physical evidence only says she fell to her death. The height of the parapet makes an accidental fall less likely.” She saw he agreed with her assessment. 

“So, you figger she was pushed or she jumped? How’ll you know? When’ll you prove it one way or the other?”

“That is my job to figure out. You have to give me enough time…”

The man interrupted. “So you say.” He looked like he was trying to make up his mind. “If you’re the coroner, Doctor Lady, what about all those fellows who ended up sick and dead from the bad liquor? How many? Have you figgered out what did it?”

She found that to be an odd turn of the conversation. “The newspapers have the story. I have eight men and women in my morgue. Poisoned by alcohol, just as you might suppose. Not an uncommon phenomenon from a poor-man’s still. The constabulary needs to discover where it originally came from.”

He glowered at her. “Who do the coppers like for it?” 

She reacted to the step he made towards, automatically backing up, bumping against the parapet. “They don’t know. Bootleggers,” she blurted out without meaning to.  _ Damn! He’s got my nerves on edge.  _

She was about to ask another question when he turned around abruptly for the door. “Sir...!” He had the door open and was about to go down. “Stop, please,” she called out. Julia was relieved he was leaving, yet she was desperate to get through to him. “Are you her lover? The woman who fell from this roof?” 

To her surprise, he stopped. Keeping his back to her, he spoke. “Where are her two little ones?”

_ Two children?  _ Julia felt a little sick. “I don’t know, because I don’t know who she is, but you obviously do. Help me!” She moved over the roof towards him. She’d been right about there being children and dreaded the idea they were alone in the world -- as much as she was horrified a woman with small children might take her own life.

He turned as if to confront her, his fist hitting the door hard enough to split the wood. “Her name is Olive. Olive Routledge. Find out what happened to her and the children. I’d be much obliged, Doctor Lady.” With that the man was down the stairs faster than she could follow, shouting over his shoulder as he went: “And find out if someone did her in.”

“I’ll do it for her, not you!” she shouted back after him. “Selfish bastard… _ ”  _ she said to the sky in disgust.

Her heart pounded.  _ What a strange encounter! _ Julia thought. She recognized his accent as European, possibly Spanish or Italian, and silently questioned what he was doing here, so far outside Toronto’s Italian enclave, west of Bathhurst. 

She went back to her original fear about the reason he came up here:  _ Was his presence a sign he killed her?  _

Somehow, Julia doubted it, he’d been too open about it, and too insistent to involve her. But what do they say about the guilty returning to the scene of the crime? What if that is why he was pumping her for information. The whole thing left her feeling rattled. She exhaled heavily, trying to loosen her anxiety, because the man’s words baffled her. She recalled Inspector Brackenreid’s suspicions about all Italians. She’d be damned if she was going to adopt the same prejudice, assuming the worst because of where he immigrated from.

Surveying around the rooftop again, she went to where the woman --  _ Olive  _ \-- likely went over, and looked down. How can she possibly decide if Olive went over by her own volition or was pushed? Using her camera, she took a few pictures of the roof, then made measurements and references notes. She walked back, pretending she was the victim -- the gravel on the roof was loud under foot, therefore no one was going to sneak up on her. There were no drag marks, no gouges.  _ Maybe there was something I missed on the body to tell me?...Or the angle of the fall? _

Sighing, she went down the long flights of stairs to talk with the janitor who swore he had never seen the man from the roof before. In the last of the good daylight, she took photographs of the courtyard and additional measurements before walking to her car for the drive home, all the while planning how to accomplish several things: 

One: Inform Detective Pearce about the man on the roof and a lead on his victim’s name.

Two: Locate Olive Routledge’s children. 

Three: Get Ruby to help develop the photographs. 

Julia entered her motorcar, hissing at how hot the leather seats were on the back of her legs.  _ Another point in favour of trousers. _ She started the motor, easing into traffic, optimistic she’d figure out the manner of death, even if she had to throw sacks of potatoes off the roof to see how they fell.

_ What I absolutely refused to do is ask that damnable know-it-all Detective Murdoch for help!  _


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**Seven AM, Tuesday June 27th**

**Offices of the** **_Toronto Daily Star_ **

Mounting the stone steps quickly, Julia threaded her way through the doorway a gentleman opened for her. She bade him thank you, then shot forward to examine the building directory. She had forgotten to ask which floor and office number she was to meet her sister on. Finding the correct location,  _ Features _ , she presented herself to the elevator cages, waited impatiently for one to stop at the lobby, then rode it up four floors to find Ruby tapping her foot on the terrazzo floor in a large hallway. The corridor ran left and right, with glass-fronted offices lining either side. 

Ruby grabbed her arm, pulling her aside with a jerk. “You’re late!”

“I couldn’t find a parking spot,” Julia said sharply, annoyed by such a greeting. “And good morning to you too.”

Ruby smirked, then relented. “I pulled in a favour for you. Do you have the negatives?”

Julia removed her camera and handed it over. “I do appreciate this, Ruby. I truly do. Just, please promise me you will not end up publishing these.” She had already started doubting this impulsive move she made involving her sister. At the time it promised to be faster and less problematic than a commercial photographer or, she shuddered, asking Detective Murdoch what to do. 

“I doubt you are up to the _ Star’s _ standards for photographic journalism,” Ruby teased. 

Julia refused to take the bait, but she did wonder how much publicity this case was likely to generate. 

“Now, if you can give us a story...” Ruby dropped her voice conspiratorially, “Something the public can get excited about…” She just waited with a half-smile on her lips.

Julia sighed. She was glad the photographs contained nothing salacious. “Just develop them, will you? I’ll come for them later today. The rest you will have to wait and see.”

With that, Julia turned on her heel and exited the  _ Star  _ offices, hoping she did not get a ticket downstairs, for double-parking her automobile.

##########

**Eight AM, Tuesday June 27th --**

**City Morgue**

Julia tapped her fingers on her desk, impatient with the telephone operator. “Yes, thank you. Please hurry.” This was the third time she’d tried the number and she was about to get in her car and drive to Keele Street for faster results. 

Several raspy noises later she heard:  _ “Detective Pearce, Station House nine…” _

“This is Dr. Ogden. I have information on your victim, the one who fell from the roof. I have determined it was the Sullivan Building she fell from. I also believe her name is Olive Routledge.”

_ “Did you find identification on her body, doctor?” _

“No. I met a man on the roof from where she fell and he told me her name.”

_ “Who was he? And what were you doing there? And why would a random man know her name if it was not the man who killed her?” _

She expected that. “Not so fast. He did not tell me his name and I was there investigating the scene to give you the answers you want! I have not determined if she committed suicide or was murdered, only that it was not an accident.” When he stopped protesting she gave him the last fact she knew. “He also told me that Olive Routledge has two young children.” 

_ “Doesn’t that make suicide less likely? What normal woman willfully orphans her children?” _

“Unless she was not in her right mind… I suggest you check with the Ontario Hospital -- the old Insane Asylum -- for that. It is all speculation. Let me do  _ my _ job, Detective. With a name perhaps you can find out what she was doing on the Sullivan Building roof and where she lived. Find someone who knew her, identify her remains...at least check on her children.” 

_ “Can you describe the man for me?” _

She was prepared for that as well. It cost her to weigh the pros and cons of telling Pearce her assumptions about the man’s ethnicity considering prevailing prejudice, eventually deciding it was for the best. “About five eight or nine, dark hair and eyes, slight to medium build. Olive skin. European -- Spanish, Italian or Sicilian, but that is only a guess. In his thirties. He looked like a tradesman to me. Smokes Sweet Caps. He...he thought she was murdered because of who she knew, or because she got mixed up in something she shouldn't have.” Detective Pearce was silent on the other end of the line. She wondered if their connection was dropped, except there was no tell-tale tone on over the receiver. Then she heard him say something muffled and returned to their conversation. 

_ “This is irregular...but I will follow up on the name Olive Routledge, and I will try and find your man from the roof since he provides a lead for my investigation. When will you determine murder versus suicide?” _

“I will let you know!” She rang off before he asked any more questions she could not answer. 

Behind her Jack came clattering in with a hand truck laden with three wooden crates. She saw the distinctive label of a chemical supply house on the top crate. “You are my hero. We can get to work, finally!”

Detective Pearce was now the last thing on her mind. She still had five full autopsies to go, but now with proper materials she immediately began bloodwork on the remaining presumptive ‘bootleg-booze’ corpses in her cooler and the associated containers the poisoned alcohol came in.

********

By 1 p.m. she had some surprising results --- and no one to tell them to because Detective Murdoch and Inspector Brackenreid were not at their desks, or so she discovered when she called over to the station house. She was just asking for notification when either returned, when her sister burst into the morgue, waving a large envelope. For a second she hoped it was mail for her before realizing it had to be the crime scene photographs.

“I brought these to you so you can’t just grab them and run away on me. I am not giving them up unless you tell me what they are all about. They are so strange; I smell a story.” 

Julia wordlessly put her hand out, giving her sister her fiercest glare. It had no effect on Ruby in the slightest. “Ruby! I need those photographs. And my camera back, don’t forget! I am not at liberty to disclose investigation findings to you.”

“So...these  _ are _ about an investigation!” Ruby’s grip on the envelope tightened. “Look, let us help each other. I give you these and you help me with a story I am pursuing about the bootleg booze deaths. I promise I will not pester you for privileged information.”

_ Ruby’s promises are not worth that much, but she may have a point about mutual aid. _ “You first.”

Flouncing to a side chair, Ruby pulled off her gloves then pushed the envelope towards Julia. “I am trying to write more than women’s pieces for the _ Star _ . I can find only so many human-interest stories about long-lost jewelry, long-lost loves and long-lost pets reunited with their owners. There has not been a Maharaja looking for a princess or an heiress advertising for her long-lost child in forever! My last piece was about riding elephants, for God's Sake. I wish to write real features which cover an important topic in depth. The subject I have chosen is bootlegging of alcohol within Ontario. I want to compare and contrast people’s lives before and after prohibition, including the life of a bootlegger. And I will not take no for an answer, not from my editor, not from my sister either.”

Julia actually thought Ruby’s idea for a story was remarkable and said so. “Where are you going to start?”

“I have a tip that a rendezvous between bootleggers and suppliers will occur tonight. I’d like you to come with me and observe this clandestine meeting.” 

“Why me?” While impressed with Ruby’s information, Julia was naturally suspicious.

“I need your scientific expertise. I have no way of knowing what I am looking at with all those copper pipes and vats and barrels of chemicals and additives and such. After all, you are the one who took all those chemistry classes at University, not me.” Ruby put on a charming smile, which put Julia even more on guard. 

“And…?” Julia waited for the kicker. She assumed her sister was about to renege on her promise, made a mere minute ago, not to fish for investigative information about the unfortunate poisonings. 

“We won’t be in any danger, I promise. We will just observe comings and goings, and look to see what we can see…” Ruby fiddled with her gloves before dropping the last piece of her plan. “Oh, all right! I want you to drive me there in that motorcar of yours and provide a fast getaway if needed!” 

Julia tried her best to frown and look aghast at such a request. She even called it a harebrained scheme, but her objections did not hold up long, because she had her own reasons for poking around an unattended warehouse. 

“Ruby, you are on. Tell me when you want to leave and I will be ready. In the meantime, go away unless you want to do a feature piece on an autopsy, because I have several more hours of hard labour here, chemical analyses, and I must figure out what to do about these photographs…. which I am certain you have already looked at. I need to use them to understand if a victim was murdered or suicided and if chemistry is not your forte, math is not mine…” 

######## 

**1530 hours Tuesday June 27th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

_ “Murdoch! What the Hell is going on?”  _

He was barely over the station house door threshold before his boss’ voice hit. It was not unusual for Brackenreid to lay in wait for him, so he took the expected confrontation in stride, because as was often with Brackenreid, it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. He moved quickly into the office, closed the door behind him and presented himself at attention while the man continued to berate him with ever-broadening Yorkshire vowels.  _ This is going to take a while. _

“Where is everyone? I go for an hour and when I return, you have emptied my station house leaving me and Sergeant Weston to be your bloody secretaries!  _ All _ afternoon!” His boss was an alarming shade of red with a crescendo of yelling. 

Ever since coming back from France, the inspector’s voice had gotten louder, especially when he was angry, as if he was still trying to make himself heard to a company of men assembled in the country-side. Murdoch thought he sounded plenty angry now. 

“It’s a good thing the Greeks aren’t rioting again or we have to send the men out on a booze-bust. Just the two of us and my shotgun.” On Brackenreid’s desk was a pile of notes, papers and telegrams. He pointed to them. “These are for you.” 

“Thank you, sir, I…” He reached for the stack of papers only to have Brackenreid’s meaty palm slam down on them. He pulled his fingers back just in time to avoid injury. 

His boss rounded on him. “Don’t thank me. I’m supposed to know what is going on around here.” 

He just remained quietly at attention until Brackenreid exhaled and pushed back in his chair. “At ease. Just tell me what you have been up to.”

“Sir, you asked us to take all the tainted alcohol deaths seriously, so I deployed the day shift, with copies of the deceased’s photographs, to retrace each person’s steps prior to their deaths. One constable per victim. I asked each man to report back as soon as he found a reliable piece of information…” Murdoch pointed to the notes and papers resting on Brackenreid's desk. “That takes manpower.”

Brackenreid nodded. “Mmm.”

“I put the word out to our network of informants here in Toronto and have also sent a wire to the Hamilton Constabulary seeking information, since that is the center of Mr. Perri’s operation. I expected to hear back from them…” He extended his hand gingerly towards the pages. This time his boss pushed them forward. He picked them up, resisting the urge to immediately go through them.

“What about Conrad Landswell? The papers are no gentler today than they were yesterday or the day before.” 

He wished he had better news. “It is inescapable: Mr. Landswell was not all he appeared. He made himself out to be wealthier and more prominent or influential than he in truth was. He had nothing in his bank account. His finances were a web of loans, although nothing defaulted; his business was built on obtaining lucrative contracts, taking a hefty profit off the top, and subcontracting the work for a pittance. Nothing illegal in any of it.” 

“Nothing his friends in city hall will be happy to know either -- and it better not get in the papers.”

“No, sir. Mr. Blackburn has been silent. Dr. Ogden, so far, has muzzled her sister.” He was not exactly confident it was true since each morning he himself looked anxiously for Ruby Ogden’s byline in the _ Star. _ “For now…” 

Brackenreid grunted. “Is there a motive for murder in his money problems or someone he’s crossed poisoned him?”

“None that we can find. We know landswell sent the cognac to the Crown Club last Wednesday. We do not know where it came from. Just today we uncovered a description of a man who called on Mr. Landswell’s office last Wednesday morning, but nothing in Mr. Landswell’s date book corresponds to that visit nor points to who that man was. Without an identity and motive, we have no reason to believe he was the person who brought the cognac to Landswell. Assuming it is a murder, our best guess is the mystery red-haired woman either brought the bottle of cognac to Landswell or had it sent to him.” Murdoch knew tracing that bottle was going to be the key; so far it was a dead end.

“So, a lot of nothing. And this poison, strychnine?”

“Constable Worseley is finishing his interviews with the suppliers and distilleries and should have something by the end of the day.” He saw his boss getting agitated again. “I removed Miss Edwina Virgil from the suspect list. She has a solid set of alibis for her whereabouts since she ended her relationship with Mr. Landswell, no access to alcohol nor the poison. No connection to Landswell’s death from any angle.”

“Bollocks! What  _ do  _ you have, Murdoch. What about the jilted lover? The Highlands girl?”

“Red-haired, is all we know, sir. We are searching Landswell’s office mail. Hodge and a couple men are canvassing around his office as we speak, the trolley drivers, coffee and tea shops and the like, since according to Miss Virgil, this woman spoke with Mr. Landswell more than once. We are hoping someone will remember her.” He heard the telephone in his office jangling, getting a scowl from his boss. 

“Been like that all day...get to it Murdoch. And find me something which connects to that  _ guinea _ Perri. Use your initiative for  _ that _ instead of gutting my budget for salaries. That’s an order!”

He almost saluted. “Yes, sir. If you will excuse me.” He made his legs move fast to get to the telephone before his caller gave up. He needed a break, and prayed this was it.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**7:30 PM, Tuesday June 27th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

Julia took long strides directly towards Detective Murdoch’s office before catching on that, like the rest of the building, it was empty.  _ Oh, yes, that’s right, the day shift leaves at six.  _ A peek over to Inspector Brackenreid’s office showed her the detective was there engaged on the telephone for some reason. The inspector himself was nowhere in sight. Nodding at the desk sergeant, she walked into the detective’s office to wait for him. 

Eschewing a seat, she gave herself a discreet tour of his office, hoping to add to what she had already learned from Constable Crabtree and Mick. A quick glance at his bookshelves immediately told he was well-read on an astonishing variety of topics, with references on astronomy, history, geology, geography, botany, chemistry, physics, and biology -- including a well-worn copy of Grey’s Anatomy.  _ Scientific American _ magazines were piled next to  _ Popular Mechanics  _ on one side of the worktable.  He even had a bound copy of  Locard's paper,  _ L'enquête criminelle et les methods scientifique.  _ There were three volumes on physics, one on math formulae and two slide rules -- just what she hoped for! Two days ago she was so angry with him she wouldn’t accept a pencil -- right now she was relieved he was capable of helping her-- assuming he was willing, that is. 

Pleased, she slowed down and savoured her reconnaissance.

Pride of place was taken up by a nice twelve-volume  _ Universal Cyclopaedia and Atlas.  _ She found herself smiling; Constable Crabtree explained about the ‘game’ they played, testing the detective’s knowledge. 

On his work bench was a spirit lamp, tongs, an impressive set of graduated glassware beakers and flasks, a Barnstead distillation set-up, and a vacuum coffee maker. The chemical analysis bench was revealing: if she was not mistaken, he had a quantity of  Benzidine, to test for blood, and an organized area for reagents. 

Turning to the table behind her, she immediately spied a new and modern microscope -- A Carl Zeiss binocular compound with  Köhler illumination to be exact -- nicer than she’d ever seen, and quite out of place in a police detective’s office. In fact, his entire set up was in some ways better than hers. 

_ Mick was right -- he does double check! _

A jab of jealousy surprised her. Running her finger along the ocular piece, she wondered if he’d let her use it some time. 

Placed around and behind the microscope were electrical wires and radio components, tubes, a soldering station and what looked like bicycle gears, all carefully laid out. She wondered what sort of device he might be working on, because it looked like something from a Jules Verne novel. She pushed a green curtain aside: a small alcove proved to hold a darkroom. Her jealousy flared again. She looked around for an x-ray machine, happy there was none. That would have been unforgivable. 

Sighing, she stepped back to the worktable and spotted a framed photograph on top of a file drawer. So many of those portraits were taken before soldiers went off to war -- a paper memory just in case the soldier did not return. 

_ A poor substitute for a living, breathing lover. _

His desk held nothing personal, no family photos, only a ship in a bottle and a brass desk lamp with green glass shade. The photograph itself testified to a happy couple, but unlike the Inspector’s family photos and those of most other men, it was not in a prominent spot on his desk. 

_ Was it a matter of propriety, or privacy as Mick suggested? Or something else?  _ Despite the plethora of items in his office, the whole effect was one of order...she’d even say sterility.

She was no detective herself, but something wasn’t adding up. 

In the Inspector’s office, Detective Murdoch remained on the telephone, looking unhappy. Her eyes back on his desk, she flipped open a notebook. Inside, in immaculately beautiful penmanship --  _ would he have something else?  _ \-- were notes on various scientific experiments the detective had undertaken complete with dates, times, hypotheses, and conclusions. He continued to make notes and observations throughout the war. Interestingly, they stopped around July 1919, and she wondered why he had so abruptly abandoned his research.

Turning back to the notebook, she tried in vain to find any more clues about him when she heard a door slam shut behind her. Guilt made her jump... She smiled as she turned around, knowing she had just been caught and decided to brazen it out. 

“My apologies, Doctor,” he offered stiffly. “I was not expecting you.”

Wanting to deflect from what she’d been staring at, she decided the microscope was a safe topic. “That’s quite the instrument you have there,” Julia motioned towards the worktable. “I must say, I am quite envious,” she added approvingly. 

He walked towards the device, tapping his own fingers along its polished side. “I persuaded the Inspector to purchase it with special funds a few years ago.”

“Persuaded? I imagine he was not happy when he discovered what he’d been tricked into buying,” she joked, seeing a wince on his face which made her think she was not wide of the mark. “I shall have to endeavor to get something similar for the morgue.” She tried her most beaming smile on him to soften the sting. 

Silently, they stared at one another, unsure what to say before he broke the impasse. “How can I help you?” 

There were a few things which sprang to her mind unbidden, but she clamped down on those unprofessional thoughts. “Well, I have information for you, and a request of you. Which do you want first?”

He blinked. “Um...Ladies first. What is it you need?”

“I am trying to determine if someone fell or was pushed from a roof, suicide versus homicide, by determining the arc of the fall, if that is possible. It was suggested to me you might have experience?” She wasn't going to explain it was actually, incredibly, Ruby who eventually made the suggestion to ask him. Against her will, she flushed. “Math is not my area. I have photographs, the measurement of the building height, and where the body landed. However, I have to calculate the…the...?” 

“Trajectory. You are looking for trajectory. And I do, unfortunately, have… experience. Is this Detective Pearce’s case?”

“Y…yes. A woman found on the pavement Monday morning. Does that matter?”

He scratched his brow, thinking it over. 

She heard him sigh before tugging at his cuffs and reaching for a piece of blank paper and a pencil. She took the seat he gestured to and he sat behind his own desk. “May I see your photographs and have the measurements?” 

He took a ruler and compass to the photographs, then she saw him quickly enter a formula on the page, consulting a slide rule, talking the whole time as he worked. “Being pushed will produce more forward movement. Over a longer drop that will place the body farther away from the wall. Were there any abrasions on her hands, broken fingernails, tears in her dress?”

“No,” she said, curious why he asked. “Nothing I cannot explain from the fall itself, why?”

“If she was climbing up or down a rope, or holding on to it, it could affect the arc of her descent, although she’d more likely come off backwards.” 

Julia shrugged. Apparently being a detective meant you had to become familiar with the most awful things.

“In my experience, homicides who are pushed to their deaths tend to go over backwards, unless they are snuck up on from the behind, landing on average more than twelve feet away from the base of the wall. If the person was already dead and the body is being dumped, it will end up close to the wall, less than five feet. Also, a suicide will fall nearly straight down, hitting the ground feet first or in the anterior position. There are exceptions, of course.” He gave her back the measurements and photographs plus his page of calculations, which included three examples with relevant formulae. He pointed to the last photograph she took which he marked with measurements. “Your body landed more than five feet and less than twelve feet from the edge, at about thirty-eight miles an hour.”

_ Good God! So fast!  _ It was unthinkable. “So,” she said softly. “A suicide?”

He smiled at her. “I do not know what was in her mind, only what physics tells me. Detective Pearce will be able to use your report to help him with the manner of death. And, if you don't mind, please just take these calculations with you as your proofs, and do not mention my help in any way to Detective Pearce. I do not wish to have any involvement, however tangential, in his case.” 

“Of course. I understand.” Sadness overwhelmed her. “Thank you. Now, Detective, I have a little something for you. I have completed tests on the blood, stomach and liquor samples and I have some results for you.” 

“Oh, and what might that be?” 

She definitely had him now. “It appears Mr. Knox is  _ not _ in fact connected to the other bootleg booze deaths. But he  _ is  _ connected to someone else. Interestingly, he died in the same manner as Mr. Landswell...high end cognac tainted with Strychnine,” Julia finished, waiting for the shocked look she hoped for.

She got it too, rewarded with a stunned expression for a moment before he schooled his features back into a calm mask...except for his eyebrows, which were still arched quizzically. “Are you sure? I mean…” he fumbled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to question your findings.” 

Smiling, she nodded, handing him the report. “I was quite surprised myself, Detective, which is why I ran the test a second time. It’s irrefutable.”

Exhaling sharply, he tossed the report onto his desk and crossed his arms, pursing his lips. 

Julia nodded in sympathy. “I’m afraid you probably won’t be making it home at a decent hour tonight,” she murmured, nodding her head towards the photograph of him and his wife. Julia figured it was a safe enough statement, wondering how he was going to respond.

“It won’t be a problem,” he snorted, then seemed to be sorry he did so. “Anything else, Doctor?” 

“Given the recent findings, you should know Mr. Knox’s death is confirmed as Wednesday, not as early as I first supposed, but still well before Mr. Landswell’s death on Friday.” 

He seemed disturbed by her news, pivoting towards his chalkboard then back to her, seemingly torn between politeness and need to get back to work. “Thank you. I do appreciate your regard for detail and your commitment to the job.”

Smiling at his praise, she held out another set of files. “There’s more,” she laughed.

“Oh?” 

“I took the liberty of contacting the medical examiners in some of the surrounding communities. They’ll be sending over the lab reports to see if the chemical composition matches.” Julia beamed, pleased with her work. “If the evidence links all of those deaths, then it means we have a single bad batch and a single supplier.” 

She saw him change again. “That is most excellent, Doctor!” 

She guessed he had more to say and waited for it, slightly disappointed when nothing was forthcoming. “Well,” she told him, “I’m afraid I’ve done all I can do there, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can speak conclusively.”

“Thank you again. I don’t suppose you’d care to be the one to apprise Inspector Brackenreid of your findings tomorrow, would you?” he asked.

A crinkle at the edge of his mouth she took for a sign of amusement. “Are you telling me a man such as yourself is afraid of Inspector Brackenreid?” she teased. “I didn’t think you were afraid of any man,” stopping herself before she added she’d seen him handle a suspect or accidently embarrassed him.

“No.” He stood politely as she did and walked her towards the door. 

On her way out, she paused at his set of encyclopedias, emboldened by the urge of curiosity. She pulled one down and opened it randomly, catching his eye in the process. Making a show of refusing to be shooed out of his office, she stabbed her finger at the left-hand page and read: “An apparatus for measuring delicate electrical or other attractions and repulsions. The attract…”

“What is torsion balance,” he interrupted. “Doctor...?”

She interrupted him right back. “Correct.” She nodded and smiled a challenge at him, pulling her finger further down the page. “In English law, such an unlawful invasion by one person of another’s rights which are created by law as remediable by common law action.”

“What is Tort,” he sighed. “I see Constable Crabtree has introduced you to his pastime.”

“I see he was right that you are never wrong. Isn’t it boring for you?” She saw his face freeze, unsure if he was self conscious or irritated, but he didn’t deny it. Fearing she went too far, she chose flattery. “I think it is a clever way for you to teach your constable all sorts of facts he’d never encounter except for the game. You make it entertaining for him as well as stimulating. I look forward to my own rematch with you.” She reached for the door. “Good evening, Detective.”

She swept out of the station house in high spirits, thinking she made the slightest inroad with her quarry: they were taking each other’s measure. He was handsome, intelligent, and a challenge -- and she always found it so difficult to decline a challenge. 

She was almost all the way home before having second thoughts about winning her bet with Ruby. He was a married man with a wife who was...what? Absent? Or had Mrs. Murdoch passed away in the Influenza epidemic? The idea she was trying to seduce a grieving widower gave her pause. 

But only for a moment. It was time for him to rejoin the living, and who better than her?

#######

_ Dr. Ogden is a decidedly confounding creature! _

Murdoch said to himself as the doctor closed his office door on her way out, aware such thoughts were wholly inappropriate for him to have towards a colleague. She was not a ‘creature’ of any kind and had just given him two important new facts to work with, both of which indicated her initiative and competency. Dr. Ogden was on her way to proving to be a better medical examiner than her predecessor. For this he was pleasantly surprised and grateful, although it meant his murder case was much more complicated. 

_ So why does she have to spoil it by being...what? Flippant? Forward?  _

Her behavior was maddeningly inconsistent: one minute sober, precise and scientific, the next, almost... provocative. Then he remembered how possessive Dr. McDaniels had been toward her. 

_ Idiot!  _ He chastised himself again for being distracted, deciding to put it down to her exuberant personality or the fact he was unused to female company other than his motherly housekeeper. 

His chalkboards were covered with notes, arrows and lines -- all of which he was obliged to revise again since learning Howard Knox and Conrad Landswell were poisoned the same way. He had a whole new theory of the case to construct. He consulted his watch -- plenty of time to redo it all before his next appointment, and to get a grip on himself. 

He picked up his eraser, using long sweeping arcs to clean the slate. His mind cleared as soon as he put it back to work. 

_ What if...? _


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**12:15 am, Wednesday June 28th, 1922**

**Gooderham and Worts Distillery Complex**

Dark clothing, silence and timing. Both of them knew the basics of not being caught after years of sneaking in and out of their parents’ home and university dormitories. Julia and Ruby exchanged heels for slippers after Julia parked her car on a Corktown side street, on the northeastern edge of the Gooderham and Worts distillery. Julia tore some paper money in half, promising the other half to the lad who was watching her car to make sure it remained unmolested. 

Dressed in an outfit which gave her some freedom of movement, she carefully walked three blocks south on Cherry Street, making sure no one observed their progress. Ruby skulked along next to her in black pantaloons and a beret covering her too-bright hair. Julia expected the area to be deserted at this hour, so it surprised her how many people were out and about, slowing them down while she tried to avoid them. The night was hot and humid with no breeze, no relief from the daytime temperatures. Noise from the residential and commercial area carried well into the warehouse complex, hopefully masking their footsteps. It was not as easy as the man who gave Ruby the information said it was going to be, but it was exactly as exciting as Julia imagined.

Gooderham and Worts was a maze of brick buildings and streets comprising nearly thirteen acres, centered around a huge windmill and wharf operation, parts of which ran twenty-four hours a day, even now despite prohibition. Their destination was No. 48, the denaturing building, one of the twenty-foot-high rectangular brick buildings between Mill Street and the tank lanes. Julia checked the numbers in the ambient light: number 50 was at the end, which made the third building in their destination. They paused in the shadows, timing workers or guards making trips between buildings or on their rounds. Julia only saw one uniformed man rattling doors, just like the constables still do in some of the Wards. Hiding behind an adjacent building, she waited with Ruby, her heart pounding, until the night watchman turned the corner, before slinking to the door, Ruby right behind her. Using a set of small tools from her pocket, Ruby picked the door’s lock and they quickly slipped into the building. Julia had no time to be amazed at her sister’s criminal skills. She closed the creaky door softly behind her, knowing they were going to have only a little time before the lock was checked again. 

Building No. 48 was where chemicals were added to distilled alcohol. According to Ruby’s source, this building was allegedly where barrels of the denatured alcohol sometimes went missing, and where it was whispered an illegal redistilling setup might be supplied with raw materials. The structure, identical to five others at the east end of the complex, was dark and quiet at this time of night, with illumination coming in through small high windows near the sloping roof line. 

Julia let her eyes adjust so she did not trip over anything. Ruby hissed at her to follow. She walked rapidly amongst the large tanks, barrels, boxes and crates, looking for supplies of brucine or methyl alcohol or evidence of diversion, making a mental note of the labels on chemicals as she went. Ruby led her in a loop through the room, and was about to head to the catwalk above the main floor so she could see better, when Julia heard footsteps coming their way down the metal stairs.

_ Damn! No one was supposed to be leaving the building!  _ Her heart now raced right into her throat.  _ Why did I let Ruby talk me into this one? _ _ What if they saw us? _

Dismayed, she immediately pulled Ruby back to hide in the shadows between a pair of large wooden shipping crates near the door, hoping they’d blend in and readied a story if they were caught, perhaps something about looking for her drunken lout of a husband… 

_ This whole thing was a bad idea. _

She tried to get her lungs to work slowly, straining to hear the footsteps, suppressing a sigh of relief when the footfalls headed away from her location and towards the door, which opened and closed leaving only silence again. Beside her, Ruby exhaled with a soft laugh. Grateful to escape being caught, Julia rose from her crouched position, emerging between the crates feeling a little giddy, when a hard hand over her mouth and nose snatched her backwards. Two strong arms easily lifting her off her feet, dragging her between the crates. She struggled with all her might, but his arms only gripped tighter, pinning her down. To make matters worse, another man was manhandling Ruby the same way. She could hear her sister’s angry whimpers.

_ Oh my God, Ruby!!!  _ Her heart was pounding in fear and lack of air, so she sank her teeth into the hand which prevented her from screaming -- or breathing. The man did not even flinch, although he did drop his hand an inch, allowing her to inhale some air through her nose. 

“Shhhhhh!” he hissed in her ear. Enraged, she shook her head “no!” and continued to kick and dig her elbows into him, because she was unable to get her hands up to gouge his eyes. 

“Oomph. Doctor. Be quiet!” the voice whispered urgently, waiting for her to agree, and even then, only releasing her enough to point to two men entering the door to No. 48. Julia could see the hand torches and pistols they carried.  _ Oh God. We’d have been sitting ducks! But who the hell are these thugs? _

Too infuriated to be scared, she stopped protesting. Next to her, Ruby was also gagged with a hand across her mouth. Ruby nodded and the restraining hand fell away from her too. With a last ‘shush’, the men set them down and stepped back, pushing them quietly to the exit and out into the blackness towards Cherry Street, not giving her or Ruby time to turn around or protest. 

At the end of the last building, the man who captured her turned on her, keeping his tone low. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Dr. Ogden?” the familiar voice rasped while the man pointedly flexed his hand. He had not worn gloves and consequently, now sported a set of nicely crescent-shaped teeth marks in the meat of his palm.

In the dim light she immediately recognized his profile, mostly by his dark hair and eyes. No one else she knew had eyelashes that thick. “Detective Murdoch! How dare you! You had no right!” she spit at him.

“Shhhh! Neither did you, Doctor. I could’ve shot you,” he hissed back. “Or those two could have done us all in.” He pointed again to where the hulking figures had disappeared into the warehouse door. “What are you doing here?!”

Ruby flung off the hand which was restraining her. “None of your business. I am here on a story. The Fourth Estate has to do your job when the authorities either can’t or won’t!” 

“Well, Miss Ogden, since I was here and it was you who interfered with a police inquiry, I’d say your accusations are unwarranted. What  _ you _ two were doing was breaking and entering, Miss Ogden, Doctor.” 

“Well, I didn’t break anything!” Ruby insisted.

“Not the point! You could have been killed!” The detective bit back.

Ruby drew herself up. “It’s not the first time I’ve been out in the big, bad world, Detective. My sister was in the war too, you know,” she shot back.

“Well, if either of you had actually done any fighting instead of gallivanting around you’d know that you never go into enemy territory alone,” jerking a thumb at a man Julia now recognized. 

“Constable,” she said, unmollified.

Crabtree tipped his black cap. “Doctor. Miss Ogden.”

The detective’s demeanour was hard. “Constable Crabtree, please escort Miss Ogden while I discuss matters with Dr. Ogden.”

The constable was confused but offered his arm to Ruby. Her sister tossed her hair and pouted but followed along.

The detective tried to take her aside. In response, she raised her hand to slap him, but he quickly caught her wrist with a firm grip and released it, allowing it to fall back at her side, which only made her angrier. “You don’t know what I did in the war...you know nothing about me. I was no camp-follower or coffee girl…”

Detective Murdoch remained obstinate. “What are you doing here? If your sister has information about a crime, why didn’t you or she come to the authorities with your findings or concerns where they could have been properly evaluated?” 

“Don’t you dare patronize me!” 

His head jerked up. “You clearly don’t know  _ me _ very well either, Doctor. I never condescend. Believe it or not, I would hate to see anything happen to you,” he replied, his eyes glittering at her, standing nose to nose so close she smelled his scent. They stood that way for a long minute. She wasn’t certain who blinked first, then Detective Murdoch motioned to start moving.

His words had shocked her almost as much as him scaring the tar out of her in the warehouse. She hurried to overtake Ruby and Constable Crabtree, deep in conversation of their own. They were a block away from the distillery complex when Julia started to reconsider her actions. Another block passed before she started to reconsider the detective and hung back to approach him. It might have been the adrenaline, but she hoped a certain comradeship was developing between them. Then she remembered she bit him. “I’m sorry about your hand. Human bites are prone to serious infections. Please let me tend to it. I would hate for it to become infected.” She tried to make it a peace offering. 

Glancing at his hand, he shrugged. “All right. Probably not a bad idea. Besides, I would've been more concerned if you hadn’t fought back.” He surprised her again with a smile. “Since you want to work this case with me, Doctor, why don’t you tell me more about why you were here, what you were looking for, and I’ll give you my thoughts.” 

“Walk me back to my car, and I just might.”

******* 

Murdoch kept up with Dr. Ogden as he and Crabtree followed to the Ogden sisters’ vehicle, having a lively debate in his head about what to make of either of the ladies and what to do since his investigation was blown up for tonight. Losing this opportunity was going to set him back, since this “meeting” tonight happened only once per month and he desperately needed to know who those two supposed Rocco Perri operatives who entered No. 48 were. He had hoped to catch them in the act of arranging to siphon off alcohol from G&W for the illegal market. 

The last person in the world he expected to have to contend with tonight was an investigative reporter and the brand-new city coroner. Ruby Ogden nosing around might be understandable given her occupation. 

_ What the devil was Dr. Ogden doing here? If she didn’t quit because of the workload or get fired for her unorthodox appearance, she was going to get herself killed, and maybe me along with it!  _

He was still arguing with himself when Dr. Ogden halted on the sidewalk right in front of him. In order not to bump into her he stopped abruptly then Crabtree slammed into his own back. Miss Ogden sashayed around the pile up to a parked motorcar. 

The doctor handed something to a nervous young man who had been lounging by the vehicle and who quickly took off. Walking around the back, she grabbed her kit from the boot while he stood there gaping at the motorcar. Miss Ogden lounged against the car door, watching intently -- particularly Constable Crabtree. 

Crabtree ran his hand tenderly on the rear fender, oblivious to Miss Ogden, bending to see the chassis and leaning in to appreciate the leather seats. “My goodness, Doctor. A 1922 convertible coupe Sunbeam motor car. Marvelous!”

“Nice car,” Murdoch murmured, as he took the magnificent machine in. It was cherry red.  _ Of course, it is _ . “What model is it?” he asked, as she readied her supplies, his hand forgotten.

“It’s a 16/40. My father promised me whichever car I yearned for if I returned to Canada.”

Miss Ruby Ogden looked put out at not being the center of attention. Murdoch was unsurprised Crabtree was completely enthralled with the machine, closely examining the chrome, the wheels and sleek lines and giving a running narration as he did so. “She has a 3016cc four-cylinder overhead valve engine with a Claudel Hobson carburetor and semi-elliptic suspension. How fast have you opened her up, Doctor?” 

“Well, Constable, the city speed limit is twenty miles per hour and the posted rural speed limit is 25 miles per hour…”

At that moment Dr. Ogden dumped alcohol on his palm. His hand remembered, he hissed out loud in pain as she cleaned the wound and examined it in the streetlight, calmly discussing her car with Crabtree. 

“But Jules could hit eighty, easily, on a smooth track,” Miss Ogden finished for her sister. Crabtree continued to smile besottedly at the vehicle, ignoring the younger woman. 

Murdoch cleared his throat. “Are you done?” he asked about his hand as Dr. Ogden tied the bandage off.

“I don’t think it will require stitches, Detective, but promise me you’ll let me look at it again in the morning. Infection is always a risk.” 

“I promise,” he shook his hand out and flexed it, interest was once again drawn to the motorcar bathed in the streetlight glow. Crabtree looked like he was in love with it. 

“Well, will you at least let me take you for a spin, Detective?” she asked with a grin. “I am sure my sister will be in good hands with your constable.”

Murdoch could not quite believe what he just heard. “I…. I cannot,” he stumbled. “We must retrieve our police vehicle. Constable Crabtree...” He had his investigation to get back to, and Crabtree would kill him if he didn’t get the first ride. He silently appealed for rescue.

Instead, Crabtree was no help at all. “Go ahead, sir. I can take the patrol car to deliver Miss Ogden home, and even type up our findings for you to review in the morning.” 

“Marvelous! I accept!” Ruby Ogden declared, putting her arm through Crabtree’s. “I’d love to get the constable’s take on current affairs.”

Crabtree’s eyes got big and dark, then he laughed. “Go, before _ I  _ take the Doctor up on her offer,” he added.

“Well,” he began. “I uh…” Surely there was some reason he shouldn’t go -- but he could not think of one.  __ He loved speed and had a genuine yen to see this car. Shrugging, he opened the passenger door to get in. 

Looking satisfied, Dr. Ogden, quickly stowed her kit in the trunk and hopped into the car herself. “Don’t worry Constable, I’ll bring your detective back in one piece.” She waved to her sister, who stepped away from the vehicle.

“Are you ready for the full force of 16 horsepower, Detective?” she laughed.

He gripped the side of the car. “I am.” 

Turning the ignition, she put it in gear, let out the clutch, nosed the motor forward then immediately shifted into a higher gear picking up speed, heading up Cherry then turning right towards the suburbs. The car’s gears moved smoothly to accompany a deep roar of the engine. Murdoch understood Dr. Ogden was well acquainted with her motorcar and was showing off both the car and her driving of it. 

With the top down and the wind blowing through his hair, he soon forgot himself, his troubles evaporating into the beautiful summer night, They were quickly out of the city to the east and north, speeding down country roads through tunnels of arching trees and along miles of rich, flat farmland. He was almost as carefree as he was on those rare nights when he took his Indian on these same roads and opened her up. He did not want it to end. Soon, she came to a stop at an overlook on the rim of the Don Valley, having circled back west. No moon meant the stars had the full arc of the sky to display their glories. 

Murdoch took his eyes from the stars...and saw _ her. _

Eyes reflecting the bright and sparkling sky and her hair blown asunder, she was a sight to behold, lips parted and panting with exhilaration. Blinking, he wasn’t sure what to do when she laughed again and got out of the car. 

The inspector would have called him gobsmacked. He sat there in silence as her laughter continued. “Surely you hope for a chance to take her for a spin yourself, right?” she asked as she walked over to his side of the car and waited.

It took a few seconds to get his tongue working. “Yes, I believe I would.” He slid over on the bench seat, drawn by the allure of the machine’s power.

He turned the car around to leave the overlook as he familiarized himself with the gears and controls, taking it slowly until he was comfortable enough to feel one with the machine. He forgot all about the wound on his hand. If he was carefree before, he was invincible now as he took sharp country turns at full speed and pushed the car as far as it would go. Rather than shrink back in fear as Liza would have done, Julia Ogden had her arms out over her head and her eyes closed with her head thrown back in glee as he drove another loop through the country lanes before making their way back to the city. 

Eventually, he pulled in front of the station house. They had barely spoken a word the whole time. With her eyes laughing, Dr. Ogden took her flask out of her purse and knocked back a swig.

He had an urge to kiss her, right there, in front of his job and the whole world, before he drove that distraction from his mind as foolish -- and dangerous. 

“Finally! Someone who knows how to drive! This was a great deal of fun, Detective. I dare say I hope we could do it again,” she exhaled as she offered him the flask.

_ She is incorrigible. _ He shook his head, astonished and amused by her in equal measure. 

“Thank you. That was… that was more fun than I have had in a long while,” he agreed, giving her a grin.

“You? Having fun? Then we shall have to make sure you have more, won’t we?” she teased, sliding over the bench seat as he got out of the car. 

“Thank you again. Tomorrow, er...later today I guess, let us compare notes, shall we?”

“We shall, Detective. Good night.” She shifted the car into gear and took off.

“Good night,” he murmured to the car’s tail lights, shaking his head at his own utter ridiculousness. His wristwatch told him Crabtree was long gone. Despite the hour, there was work to do and he’d have to deal with everything in the morning, but instead of going to his desk inside the station house, he went around to the station house’s stables-turned-garage, got on his motorcycle and roared off into the night himself.

Once he got home, he shucked his clothes and immediately fell asleep. He did not awake until his alarm, only then realizing Dr. Ogden never told him why she was there with her sister. 


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**9:10 AM, Wednesday June 28th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

“Forty-four deaths? Good God!” Inspector Brackenreid exclaimed as he handed Julia a cup and saucer. 

“Thank you, Inspector.” She was desperate for the caffeine considering how late she got to sleep last night and how early she rose this morning. Aside from being short on rest though, she felt elated, telling herself it was because her contribution to the murder investigation was about to get wider recognition. 

Detective Murdoch provided the beverage -- _awfully proudly_ \- _-_ from his own personal Vector Syphon. The brew in the cup smelled right, so Julia took a sip of the coffee -- which in her opinion proved undrinkable. Since the Syphon was not to blame, she figured it was the coffee itself which was not up to standards. The two men she sat with relished their cups; _why_ she couldn't imagine. She placed hers on the edge of the inspector’s desk, flashing a polite smile at Detective Murdoch who sat next to her in chairs in front of the inspector’s large desk. 

Pleased to be included in the meeting, instead of drinking the coffee she took her time to observe the office -- inspector and detective -- particularly how those two men interacted with each other. Viewing them side by side, she guessed Inspector Brackenreid was straddling forty or a bit beyond. 

Inspector Brackenreid was slightly thick in the chest, with a net of creases at the corners of light blue eyes. He wore a light grey, summer-weight flannel suit cut in the typical British fashion with a sophisticated deep maroon scarf tie. Detective Murdoch, on the other hand, wore a modern American cut in the dark tropical-weight wool he favoured. His fashionable white shirt had an attached collar, encircled with an exquisite blue silk tie in a subtle damask pattern. 

Both men were fit, as was necessary for their jobs. 

She smiled to herself. Of course, she knew exactly _how_ fit this particular detective was, considering the manhandling he gave her last night. She had no trouble at all remembering his muscled arms and chest against her own frame when he carried her out of that warehouse as if she weighed nothing, prompting a quick return fantasy about what getting between the sheets with him might reveal -- it had made going to sleep a little harder last night and she was all warm inside just thinking about it. 

His hand where she bit it, she noticed, remained covered by a sticking plaster. 

The detective, so stiff and serious, and his superior, broad and voluble, appeared comfortable with each other despite their differences in rank and backgrounds. She had seen the same affinity between the detective and his constable. The three of them were an odd trio, based on what little information she had scraped up: George Crabtree had been destined to be a chimney sweep, William Murdoch a priest and Thomas Brackenreid a Yorkshire factory worker. _If not for the war and their jobs,_ _these men would not ever cross paths, let alone be trusted friends and comrades_. It struck her these very differences contribute to their success in solving crimes. 

While she looked them up and down, both men studiously avoided looking anywhere south of her shoulders, since she herself was in trousers again in anticipation of a busy, physical day at the morgue. Fortunately, they were smart enough not to comment, she observed with satisfaction.

Detective Murdoch set his cup down next to hers to explain her findings to his boss. “Yes, sir. Forty-four deaths that we know of. Dr. Ogden took the initiative to contact coroners’ offices in the surrounding areas. She obtained the complete results and I thought it was only right the doctor report it to you directly.” 

Julia acknowledged the privilege. “The deaths range from Rochester to Toronto, including Buffalo, Niagara Falls, Welland and Hamilton. The first reported death from poisoned alcohol was in Hamilton last Tuesday, the last being in Rochester two days ago. I believe there are likely more -- victims who were only sickened and did not die, and those who died and were buried without coming to the notice of the authorities.” 

“All poisoned the same way?” Brackenreid asked.

Julia almost said yes, before recalling the admonition Detective Murdoch gave her about overreach. “I have alerted the coroners or medical examiners in each jurisdiction what to look for. I asked to be informed as soon as toxicology is confirmed.” Julia could tell the inspector was pleased. 

“Good,” he said, giving her a wide, approving smile. “One step closer to nailing Rocco Perri. Well done, Doctor. I told you we had the right coroner, Murdoch.” 

Julia sent a look to the detective, asking herself what his comment meant. Detective Murdoch refused to meet her gaze. “I have new information on Howard Knox...” she explained.

“Do you?” The inspector actually chuckled at her. “Finally! Murdoch has not been all that forthcoming.” He looked at her expectantly. 

Beside her, she heard the detective inhale, probably to defend himself. She glanced in his direction, but all he did was press his lips shut. Julia waited for him to say something; when he remained silent, she turned to Inspector Brackenreid for her report. 

_Too bad they were about to puncture his good mood._

“Yes...well. Unfortunately, inspector, Mr. Knox, the soldier you and I both knew, is not one of the so-called bootleg booze deaths, poisoned by methyl alcohol. He was poisoned by strychnine -- the same way as Mr. Landswell.” 

**** 

Murdoch saw the inspector’s attitude change from avuncular to furious. “Chuffin’ hell!” 

“Sir…” he objected, embarrassed for Dr. Ogden by the blue language.

Dr. Ogden just shot a withering look in his direction. “Exactly, Inspector,” she countered. “I have toxicology and physical evidence that both of them were killed by a large dose of Strychnine laced in cognac.” 

Brackenreid launched himself out of his chair. “What do Knox and Landswell possibly have in common? Murdoch! I thought you were investigating a spurned lover motive -- that red-haired woman sniffing around Landswell?”

“Yes, sir, we are,” he said as evenly as he could. 

Meanwhile, his boss paced. “Are these murders or accidents? What would an alkie like Knox be doing with something as rare and refined as cognac?”

“Sir. The next step is finding a connection between Knox and Landswell: the cognac; the poison; this red-haired woman; the timing of their deaths; known associates. More legwork for the men today, I am afraid, but we will find a connection.” He inhaled. “If the first of the poisoned-alcohol deaths occurred in Hamilton…” 

Brackenreid cut him off. “Hamilton is where Rocco Perri holes up, isn’t it? If the first death was in Hamilton, does it mean the alcohol did not originate in Toronto?” 

“Not necessarily sir,” he answered, quickly glancing in Dr. Ogden’s direction. They agreed not to reveal her and her sister’s surprise encounter at the distillery. “Constable Crabtree and I witnessed a clandestine meeting last night at Gooderham and Worts. We, er… were unable to identify the participants, however we confirmed rumours that G&W may be the source of at least some of the alcohol which ends up in the bootlegging operation.”

“So where does Hamilton fit in?” His boss loomed over him, beefy arms crossing his chest and glowering.

Dr. Ogden appeared interested in the answer as well. She sat up and crossed her own arms, imitating what the inspector was doing. _Two against one..._ Murdoch found the sight oddly intimidating. 

“This morning, Hamilton authorities told me that a vocal anti-alcohol, anti-bootlegging priest was recently murdered.” He pulled the telegram -- which had been waiting for him when he arrived at work -- out from his breast pocket and handed it up, only to have Brackenreid grunt and grab it from him. His boss fetched reading glasses to peruse the note. 

“I thought Catholics were not so fond of prohibition, present company excepted of course,” Brackenreid continued to scan the page. “So, are you saying all roads lead to Hamilton? Lead us to Perri? What’s your theory about the _Eye-talian_ scourge over-running the province?”

He didn't have one...not yet at least, so he temporized. “As you say, Hamilton is where Rocco Perri centers his operation, sir.” He knew better than to ask for permission to extend his investigation into Hamilton. He’d have to either do it on his own time, and probably his own dime, or he’d have to get Brackenreid to think it was the inspector’s personal idea to send his detective there. He nodded politely to Dr. Ogden and stood as if the meeting were adjourned. 

He was at the door when his boss voiced a frustrated surrender. “All right. One day in Hamilton. Discreetly. While you are there, get a more recent likeness of our Mr. Rocco Perri. You make a mess of this, it'll be your hide!” 

*******

She followed him across the bullpen to his office and waited, pointedly, until he ushered her inside. She closed the door behind her. “Is the Inspector always so...so...parochial? Are all police the same?” She could see she caught him off guard. 

His answer came swiftly. “Do not be concerned. His statements do not reflect my own opinions and, despite his rhetoric, they do not colour his implementation of police work. Ever.”

She remained skeptical. “By the way, I’ve seen you interrogate a suspect, Detective. Does the Inspector know you just manipulated him?” He looked at her blankly to give nothing away -- which of course confirmed it for her. “I thought so,” she smiled. She was learning to read him.

“Doctor Ogden, I hardly think--” 

“Perhaps you can call me Julia? At least in private?” She walked towards the center of his crowded office, taking time to read and appreciate his blackboards full of information, something she did not attend to in her last foray here. Her impression was that this was an example of how the interior of his mind worked -- busy but orderly, multi-faceted, visual, logical, seeking connections. “Now, how are you going to link Mr. Landswell’s and Mr. Knox’s to each other? They appear so dissimilar: one alcoholic, one not. One successful and prominent, one scraping the bottom of society. Then there are all the rest of the poisoned alcohol deaths.” 

He seemed to hesitate, appraising her. “The previous coroner would have missed the crucial details which got our investigation this far forward, Doctor.” 

“It’s Julia.”

“Julia, then. But at work it is preferable we stay professional.”

 _He used my name. That is_ some _progress._ “Thank you.”

“Of course, your late-night skulking is not what I’d recommend for the future. Next time you have information pertinent to a murder investigation, please inform me before you go off on your own.”

“I was with my sister…” she objected.

He tried another blank look, but she could tell he wasn’t amused. “And look how well that turned out,” he said.

“I discovered that Gooderham and Worts use Brucine in large quantities to denature alcohol, and that warehouse we were in last night had barrels of it. It was also full of methyl-alcohol which is used in their blend. We were both there for the same reason -- W&G products are being diverted for the illegal alcohol trade.” _Why does he get my dander up so easily?_

“Information I already possessed. Please. I must insist you leave clandestine investigation to the professionals. Your skills as a pathologist would be hard to replace.”

“William,” she said as sweetly as she could, unable to resist baiting him, if only mildly. He had not offered her his Christian name, but she knew it nonetheless. “You must allow me my methods. However, from now on I promise to do all my nocturnal adventures with you. And you are correct, I am certain I am the best pathologist you will ever have the privilege of working with. Speaking of which, I must get back to the morgue.” 

****** 

_She called me ‘William.’_

He hadn’t heard anyone say his Christian name in ...years. To have Liza call to him again had been his greatest hope for so long….

But ‘William’ was a husband, a hoped-to-be father, a son, a brother. All of that was gone... He’d been ‘Murdoch’ since Catholic Grammar School. ‘Murdoch’ at every job he ever had. ‘Murdoch’ in the army. After so many years on the force, he’d begun to think his first name was ‘Detective’.

He watched Dr. Ogden -- _Julia_ \-- leave his office, finding her flirtations...unnerving, and amused by her brashness, much as he disapproved of her recklessness. 

He shook himself, tearing his eyes away from her departure, to gather the men under his command. “Hodge, when Worseley gets off the telephone, will you bring him, Crabtree and Higgins to my office?” 

Murdoch took another, closer look at his chalkboards, making a few adjustments. He was just dusting his hands off when Crabtree arrived first, obviously in a good mood. “Yes, Constable?” 

“Sir, I have one for you.” Crabtree got a slip of paper from his tunic pocket just as the other constables entered. Higgins sniggered and elbowed Crabtree. Worseley and Hodge were happy to play along. 

Murdoch was certain there was betting on when he’d finally get stumped. He withheld a sigh. _Brackenreid was probably their bookie._

Crabtree began. “A term for groups of fishes which include pike, carp, salmon and trout. I am doing you a favour by not listing the Latin names. Exceptionally long and tongue-twisty...”

This one he had to think about. “What is... Abdominales? Still with the “A’s?” 

“Another point to you, sir.” Crabtree looked crestfallen. “I am working my way back through the alphabet. Last one...for today. The act of renouncing or rejecting something, especially something which gives pleasure or satisfaction; self-denial.”

Murdoch’s mind strayed to Julia Ogden. He answered quickly. “What is abnegation?” 

Higgins snickered again. “Why does anyone need an old four-dollar word? And who does that, anyways, reject pleasure? Why not enjoy life if it is for the taking?”

“Oh, I don’t know Higgins,” Crabtree answered grumpily. “Maybe some people want to save themselves up for the better things in life.”

Murdoch intervened before the two of them started sniping. “Gentlemen, I have your next assignments. Hodge, take a team of men and beat the bushes again for more leads on local bootlegging. This time widen the search. Constable Worseley?”

“Aye, sir?” Worseley’s brogue was quite distinct, cracking Scot’s accent. 

“Constable, how are your thespian skills?” He examined Lorne Worseley up and down, satisfied this was going to work. 

“Me’ what?” Worseley looked worried.

“ _Acting_ skills,” Crabtree explained.

Murdoch smiled. “You are going on a special assignment with one of the female morality officers, Miss Sweets. You are going to get into your civvies and you are going to take another look for this mysterious red-haired woman. We don’t know more than her hair colour and that she is fresh from the farm and was last seen June 19th outside Mr. Landswell’s office. But we do know we do not want to scare her away.” 

He got a curious look from Worseley, then turned to his Toronto street map pinned to the wall, gesturing with his fingers so Worseley would understand. “We have already done this one way, _officially_ , now we will do it, _un-_ officially, out of uniform. You and Miss Sweets begin at Mr. Landswell’s office and work outwards street by street in a spiral, like this.” He traced the pattern with his hand. “You are to ask at all the female boarding houses for your _sister_. Since this red-haired woman appears to have been on her own, it is logical she’d have taken rooms in one. We’ll call her Mary; that is safe enough. People might recall the police were looking for her-- we can use it to our advantage. If someone had seen her on or before June 19th, then you tell some tale about your mother saying all is forgiven and she can come home. That will hopefully elicit more information, and more sympathy than when the authorities asked after her. You two can even disparage the constabulary if it helps.” 

“Aye, sir. There aren’t many boarding houses. We’ll ask at the Young Woman’s Christian boarding house on Elm and the cafeteria on Yonge as well.”

“Excellent. Just remember to play the part of an older brother and sister sent to fetch their wayward sibling.” He heard Worseley’s hearty guffaw. 

“I have six sisters sir, all younger. Me’ mam was always having me fetch ‘em!”

He had no trouble at all imagining what that was like. “You can use your experience, then. Crabtree, Higgins, get each and every piece of paper Conrad Landswell ever owned or touched. Go over them again. You are looking for evidence of a woman contacting him, making threats, asking questions--anything at all. Concentrate on dates before June 19th.”

“And you, sir?” Crabtree asked.

He went for his hat on the way out. “While Hodge and the rest of you are knocking on doors, I am going to work on how and where Rocco Perri gets his product into our fair city.”

#######

Julia’s office telephone was ringing, with Jack nowhere in sight. She raced for the receiver, out of breath by the time she answered. “Dr. Ogden, City Coroner.”

_“Detective Pearce here. Thank you for information on my female victim. An attorney named Mr. Albert Rosen will be coming down to the morgue to formally identify her as Sarah Olive Routledge, known as Olive. He was able to account for her presence at the Sullivan Building. Good work, Dr. Ogden. Station nine can close this tragic case.”_

“Detective, wait!” She thought he was going to hang up before giving her what she needed. “Does this attorney know where she lived and where her children are?”

 _“Mr. Rosen gave an address in St. Catharines. Local constables found the children cared for by neighbors. I am surprised the woman was never arrested by the authorities in St. Catharines for indecency -- being an unmarried, pregnant woman -- she would have if she’d lived here in Toronto in my precinct.”_ He sounded offended. _“Don’t worry, Doctor. The children are safe and sound with the local Children’s Aid Society by now.”_

At least he did not call them bastards. “Will they go to an orphanage if relatives do not come forward?”

_“Yes, I assume so. There are no records of where their father is or who he -- or rather they -- might be, although obviously the men exist somewhere. There was nothing informative in her flat, according to the St. Catharines constables who investigated.”_

Julia was incensed by his attitude, needing a tight grip to hold her tongue. “What about the man on the roof? Did you find him? What do you know about him?”

_“No need to pursue that when you ruled it a suicide, doctor. Now, thanks again for your help, but I must move on to what’s next on the pile on my desk.”_

“And her remains?”

 _“Unless someone claims her in two weeks, you can send her to Potter’s Field. Unless you think she won’t, er...keep.”_ Detective Pearce hung up abruptly in Julia’s ear. 

“Well, that went well,” she told the telephone.

She sent the earpiece to its hook with a sharp snap of her wrist. _Damn. Did no one care about Olive?_ She had no idea how she was going to contact the Roof Man when and if she discovered anything, and was uncertain even if she should. Station House No. 9 certainly wasn’t going to devote any energy into it.

 _Maybe I can put something in the Star_.

She looked around for Jack, belatedly recalling she’d sent him on an errand. Rolling up her sleeves, she went down the steps to the morgue cooler and yanked on the handle, swinging the heavy door open. _Yep. Still full._ She slammed the door shut, went up the stairs to her office and sat back down at her desk, fidgeting with the old brass ink pot which some previous coroner left behind. 

As a nurse she was known for her problem-solving and audaciousness in a crisis. A grueling medical school education trained a lot of that impulsiveness out of her, but recently she felt some of that urgency to DO something coming back. If she could not use her position as City Coroner, why have it at all? She had a couple ideas about that.

She pulled the phone towards her. “Operator, I’d like to place a long-distance call, please.” 


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**0600 hours, Thursday Morning, June 29** **th** **, 1922**

**Union Station, Toronto**

Murdoch lurched with the train coach just as he claimed his seat amongst the throng of morning commuters. Men jostled for window seats or read the morning papers, while a handful of through-travelers to Hamilton or Niagara Falls or beyond shot them weary looks. Fortunately, he found a seat to himself to spread out and review his notes, something he’d not be able to do if he drove. He was therefore annoyed when another passenger settled next to him, causing him to pull his legs into a tight cramp. “Pardon me,” he uttered automatically without looking up.

“An apology is unnecessary.”

_Her voice._ His blood pressure spiked. “Dr. Ogden. I saw in this morning's _Toronto Star_ personals, a line or two about Detective Pearce’s suicide case, looking for information. That was your doing?” Try as he might, he was unable to keep a tinge of displeasure out of his tone. 

“Perhaps,” was all she admitted to, but he thought she preened a little at the mention. 

“To what do I owe the honour, Doctor?” 

“Why, I am coming with you! After we spoke, I called the Hamilton coroner and Dr. Stanwix agreed as professional courtesy to let me examine his findings and autopsy records for the murdered priest, and look at other patient records he suspects are associated with poisoned alcohol -- persons who sickened but did not die -- because Dr. Stanwix has privileges at the Mount Hamilton Veteran’s Hospital. He will meet me this morning.” She gave him a grin. “I thought we agreed to a first name basis when we are not conducting business… _ William _ .” 

He noticed her self-satisfied expression out of the corner of his eye; she smelled of sandalwood. “Your initiative is outstanding...Julia,” he said, and meant it. At least she knew enough to wear orthodox lady's business costume in a sober navy blue, complete with hat and gloves today, if she was going to conduct an official inquiry on behalf of the City of Toronto. 

In his own pocket, however, was a pared down list of who he was scheduled to see while in Hamilton. Nothing on it included shepherding her around. He started to object while she continued to breeze forward.

“Thank you; I have more,” she said excitedly. “My dearest friend, Prudence Carter, lives in Hamilton and is quite up to date on Society there. She explained that, instead of Roman Catholic, Father Doulton was Anglican and a leading proponent of prohibition -- of the fire and brimstone variety -- having quite the public notoriety for his sermons on the subject. I am told he was not above shaming those who indulge, whether from the pulpit or in the newspapers. He offered individual counseling to remove the devil from your soul if that was what it took to achieve abstinence. By all accounts, a true believer.” 

_ She sounds as if she does not approve.  _ He flipped through his notes, trying to focus. Her gossip source was as accurate as the report in his own hands. “Detective Travers of the Hamilton Constabulary concours with the opinion Father Doulton’s murder is linked to his anti-alcohol activities, considering there was no robbery and no other known motive. Detective Travers is bothered by the coincidence of this murder at the same time of so many other poisoned-alcohol deaths.” 

“I have heard no police officer believes in coincidences.” 

He wondered if she was teasing. “No, we do not,” he said firmly. “The good Father would have made such mass tragedies part of his anti-alcohol campaign, putting pressure on consumers, suppliers, distributors, City Hall -- perhaps even Mr. Perri directly or indirectly. Detective Travers theorizes Father Doulton came into knowledge of the origins of the poisoned alcohol through the church.”

She leaned towards him. “An assassination?” 

__ He slid as far away from her on his seat he could manage. “That may be going too far. However, Detective Travers and I agreed the timing of Father Doulton’s death in Hamilton, coinciding with the spate of “bootleg booze” deaths, warranted assuming a link until we are convinced otherwise.” 

“Hardly a scientific approach. I was given to understand your methods always follow scientific principles, at least that is what Constable Crabtree informed me. What about your null hypothesis?”

This time he knew she was teasing him.  __ He studied his notes harder before addressing her, needing to clear his head. “Dr. Ogden--”

“ _ Julia _ . I insist…”

He coughed lightly. “Since I am allowed only one day’s grace to investigate the Hamilton angle, I wish to be as effective and efficient with my time as possible. I have mapped out my interviews and the locations to visit on a tight schedule.” For an insightful woman, she did not readily cotton on to subtleties. 

She laughed. “I suppose you used Taylor’s and the Gilbreth’s engineering principles for time and motion to make your route.”

His eyes widened.  _ How did she know? _ “Well, actually…” He stopped when he recognized she’d merely made an offhand joke. He groaned inside -- it was going to be a long day. “Ahem...I plan to meet with Detective Travers first thing. Then I will be combing their records, interviewing some of the constables, and getting a tour of Rocco Perri’s suspected operations, so I don’t think...”

“Excellent! I am going to start at the Veteran’s Hospital this morning, have luncheon with Prudence and wind up at the Hamilton Morgue. You can meet me there; shall we say four o’clock? It will give us time to share our findings and come to conclusions about Father Doulton’s murder before catching the return train.”

She said this so confidently as if it were a settled matter, which annoyed him. He had his own agenda. Shaking his head, he tried again. “Dr. Ogden... _ Julia _ …Perhaps--”

“ _ Julia _ . That’s better. Now, what do you think about Mr. Roy Giles’ series of articles in  _ Scientific American _ this year on criminal behaviour? Safe-Breaking? Opium and Hash-Eesh? Stamp Frauds and their Detection? Have you kept up?” She bestowed a brilliant smile on him. “I was fascinated by his most recent offering on planning a robbery. I’d be most interested in your professional take on the subject.” She crossed her hands over her pocketbook expectantly, crochet-gloved fingers intertwining. “Unless you wish to play Constable Crabtree’s word game until we reach our destination? How about the fear of the number six-six-six?”

He was nonplussed. “What is [ Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia?](https://www.google.com/search?safe=active&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS911US911&sxsrf=ALeKk02IaHdNQ0u9qdfqlcoqc42R0I_yPg:1604007337398&q=How+do+you+say+Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia%3F&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwju3r_84NrsAhVomXIEHTNWD6EQzmd6BAgKEA0) ” he answered. 

_ She _ just kept looking at him. 

He noted an odd sensation in his chest -- ridding himself of it by taking in a great gulp of air. Then he shrugged. He so seldom got to discuss anything of scientific interest with anyone... “Well, Mr. Giles does posit a certain larcenist talent, which uses cleverness, duplicity and corruption to achieve criminal ends…”

Without realizing it, by the time the train finished accelerating and the movement smoothed out, Murdoch was engaged in stimulating conversation, his murder cases all-but forgotten.

***

**The Taggert Mansion**

**Queen Street South, Hamilton**

“Dennie, this is delicious! You say it is called an Alligator Pear? How exotic!” Julia loved the formal dining room of Prudence Carter’s grandfather’s red-sandstone house with its stained-glass, wall of oak built-ins, and miles of trim work. It was beautiful, solid and enduring, just like her friend. The smooth, silky green bite of fruit in her mouth -- _ or was it vegetable? _ \-- was so firm yet delicate. Also, just like Dennie.

“I knew you’d be game for it, Jules. I am told they are originally from Mexico. These came from Cuba with the last shipment of tobacco. My grandfather won’t touch them, but I couldn’t resist.” Denny sat at her right dressed in a man's trousers, shirt and waistcoat, her jacket flung over the back of her chair. The aroma of cured tobacco permeated her clothing, announcing she ran her family tobacco manufacturing business from the center of the action. The only nod to femininity, besides her unmistakably beautiful features, was her long dark hair pulled back and fixed in place with a dragonfly hair ornament. “Now, what gossip can I tell you about our fair city? On the telephone you said you wanted to know more about our most infamous bootlegger...”

*****

**1400 hours**

**St. Mark’s Anglican Church, Hamilton**

In an airless heat, Murdoch and his companion manoeuvred around each other. 

“This photograph was taken after we moved the body…” Detective Benjamin Travers, a barrel of a man with rough sandy hair and square hands, handed him the last crime scene photograph taken in Father Adam Doulton’s office. “You can see the blood where it was underneath the body.” 

He nodded, accepting the sheet. “Thank you.”

Murdoch compared the photograph to the actual room, which was tucked behind the altar and apse of St Mark's Anglican Church. In less than a week since the priest’s murder, the parish completely stripped the place to the bare walls, and re-paint it a crisp white, as if to exorcize the evil conducted there -- returning a cross to the walls for good measure. The floor was bare, the carpet having been removed to get blood out, he suspected. Only a wooden desk and a single chair remained, both showing the effects on their finishes of removing any stains of death. 

He flipped back to the previous photograph. Even in black and white it was obvious Father Doulton had bled out. No photographs showed the entire layout of the room nor the extent of blood spatter, which was frustrating, and the whitewashed walls were no help now.  H e noticed there were two doors in this relatively cramped office, presumably so a parishioner might enter or exit confidentially. 

“Dr. Stanwix’s estimated time of death was eleven-thirty a.m. Monday the 19th. Your investigation reports no reliable witnesses.” Travers was silent, which was fine, because Murdoch was mostly talking to himself. He examined the space, comparing the written reports to the physical scene, noting the placement of each object and of the corpse. As far as he could tell from the pictures, there was no sign of a struggle. He went through the photographs a third time. “Are you assuming a sudden attack? There is hardly room in here for a fight.”

Travers nodded. Murdoch thought it was hard to tell, but in the photograph, it looked like nothing was disturbed on the priest’s desk, no chairs were overturned.

He motioned to the second door, got a wave from Travers, then opened it, following it to a corridor and back to the sanctuary. The church had an unusual set up, with the main entrance at the side of the building facing Hunter Street where he and Travers entered. He counted three other exit doors: one more on the Hunter street side, one to the rear of the pews and one to the side alley. He crossed in front of the altar rail, genuflected out of habit, and went back around to rejoin Detective Travers in the tiny office.

Travers stood up, motioning around the room. “The church doors are always open, a real Christian ministry, full of pious people -- never had problems before from the street. The Reverend Adam Doulton was devoted to the church, beloved by his congregation. He had no appointments that day anyone knew about, nothing in his calendar. No threats in his direction, overt or implied, despite how he beat the drum about alcohol. As far as anyone knows he was supposed to be here working on the next Sunday's sermon.” 

Murdoch imagined the priest writing at his desk, then looked at the photographs. “I don’t see any paper or notebooks on the desk. If he was writing, where are they?”

Travers frowned, deep lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Maybe the Reverend was waiting for inspiration?” He leaned against the wall. “Murdoch, it’s like I told you, we got nothing. We have not scared up a single lead. The best we got is a vague report a man maybe came out of the alley on the side of the church, parallel to Hunter Street, maybe around lunch time. He was only noticed because someone thought he was wobbling down the street too fast. You saw how busy Bay Street or Hunter are; all sorts of people about. It could have been anybody on a short lunch break trying to get back to work before the boss reamed him out. No motive, other than the priest’s stand on the evils of alcohol, which we speculate made him a target. Problem is... I got no weapon, no fingerprints I can use. Nothing! That is what makes me think this was deliberate, well-timed and well-planned.”

_ An assassination _ ,  _ which is what Dr. Ogden suggested on the train _ . Murdoch could easily visualize it, from multiple angles, seeing the priest welcome a visitor, perhaps raise his arms to greet him, getting impaled by a quick, sharp jab of the knife -- the shock and surprise, perhaps disbelief in Father Doulton’s eyes as he collapsed and the assailant pulled the knife out, leaving him to bleed out, alone in this space. 

“And Rocco Perri has the only organization capable of getting away with murder?” he asked. 

Travers splayed his large hands out in front of him. “Who else?” He clapped one of those hands on Murdoch’s shoulder, steering him out of the office. “If Father Doulton knew facts regarding so many dying from poisoned liquor, he’d have never kept it to himself. That is something everyone knew about the priest. Getting him alone to do the deed would have been easy. All someone would have to do is ask, and Father Doulton would have invited his killer back for some private talk...” he swung his chin back over his shoulder towards the office. “Or just walked in…”

“...And gave his killer the perfect location for a murder,” he finished the sentence. 

Travers grunted. “Now let me take you to the reason why…”

He followed the other detective back onto the street, blinking at the brightness. Travers piloted the police car to their next destination a few blocks east: the main office of the sprawling Royal Distillery complex at 16 Jarvis near King Street. The car pulled up onto the sidewalk into a spot of shade. Travers cut the noisy, battleship of a Ford Model “T” engine, put the parking brake on and got out, waggling a hand to Murdoch to follow him into the maze of buildings. The place reminded Murdoch of Gooderham and Worts with a jumble of brick buildings connected by gravel roadways, except, unlike G&W, Royal was no longer in operation. 

“Most whisky made in Ontario has always been Rye. Royal petered out after the Great War then closed, unable to keep up with the big five: Seagram, G&W, Hiram Walker, Corby, and Wiser.” Travers lectured as he guided them. “Most of the bootlegging here in Hamilton is of the small-operation type, selling from pre-prohibition stockpiles, or homebrewers with a still. Slightly bigger operators make mash, add burnt sugar, some other oddments then slap a high-end label on it. They can get six dollars a go. Large operations buy alcohol destined for export or skip the purchasing and just divert it from the wagon or train for resale -- a theft of an entire train car’s worth of liquor, some of it unadulterated, has happened. The retail price goes up for the genuine stuff. We think Perri’s operation is of a different stripe.” 

He let the man prattle on, getting confirmation for what he had accomplished in his own investigation yesterday. 

Travers reached their destination, one of the large red brick buildings with a gabled roof fronted by two huge sliding doors, which hung on wheeled tracks. Travers took the right-side door and asked Murdoch to handle the left. He grabbed the handle and used his strength to start the door moving, sending a metal-on-metal screech echoing in the complex while the door sent out a shower of small particles. He squinted to keep them out of his eyes. Once the door banged open, he entered the dark warehouse, wiping some sweat off with his handkerchief. The building was hot and gave off many kinds of sweet and earthy smells -- definitely overpowering. Travers promised him a revelation once they arrived at their destination, but as far as he could see, the entire, cavernous structure was empty. He waited for the eyes to adjust, in case he was missing something.

There was a wall-to-wall open floor. “Detective Travers, I thought you were going to show me Rocco Perri’s bootlegging operation,” Murdoch complained. “There is nothing here.” 

Travers walked to the center of the building, his footfalls sharp on the concrete, his arms wide like a carnival showman. “Exactly, Murdoch! In here used to be the original Royal distilling operation. All the tubing, three enormous copper kettles for their best label -- the whole show. It wasn’t sold off when the distillery closed. Wasn’t requisitioned for the war effort. Where did it disappear to?”

****** 

**1600 hours**

**Hamilton Morgue**

Murdoch was still thinking about Detective Travers’ demonstration as he mounted steps into a grey stone building where the Hamilton morgue was housed. Where  _ does _ one hide an enormous bootlegging operation? Especially if distilling from scratch or redistilling is part of the illegal business? He had worried the problem all last night and all day today, without coming up with an answer he liked.

Unsurprisingly, Dr. Stanwix’s pathology domain was in the basement. He was directed to another set of stairs which led downward, taking the right hand turn to a set of double doors at the end. He pushed one open, revealing Dr. Ogden studying papers which were laid out on what looked like two metal gurneys. She was so intensely focused she did not hear him behind her. 

Tired and hungry, he was no further ahead in this investigation at four o’clock than he had been at six this morning. Murdoch looked again at Dr. Ogden, bent over a stack of papers with a magnifying glass. Much to his consternation, he was now hoping it was she who was going to give him a break in the case. He waited a moment before scraping his foot on the hard floor to herald his presence.

The signal did not help, because she jumped about two feet and yelped. 

“Detective!” she scolded, her cheeks becoming a shade of pink as she whirled around. “Didn’t anyone tell you it was rude to sneak up on someone?” Her voice rose an octave and her eyes flashed.

He smiled, what he hoped was apologetically. “Sorry, Doctor. You were quite engrossed. May I ask what has so captured your attention?”

She considered him, then turned her back again, inviting him to see what she was looking at. In front of her was an autopsy report, including a set of photographs he had not seen before of Father Doulton’s wound. “The murder was not particularly brutal, as murders go. A single stab wound to the chest...” She gave him one photograph to study while she read the report. “But effective.”

He brought the crime scene photographs back to mind. “Was there evidence of a struggle on Father Doulton’s body?”

“Other than the gaping knife wound, of course?” She laughed. 

He thought the sound was out of place in this hall of death. “Of...of course. Or anything which ties this murder to Landswell or Knox, such as strychnine?”

She shook her head. “Nothing in the autopsy report. Murder weapon was a single edged blade, six inches long, a slight upward angle under the ribcage…” 

“Does Dr. Stanwix estimate the height of the assailant? Or if not, can you?” he asked hopefully.

“Dr. Stanwix opines that, considering Father Doulton was above-average in height at six feet, the assailant was anywhere from five feet six to six foot himself. Although…” she hesitated. “If Father Doulton had his hands raised, like so…” she demonstrated, holding her own arms, “that is a variable Dr. Stanwix did not consider.” 

“So, not much force is necessary to get the blade in.” He was already visualizing the knife piercing clothing and penetrating the priest’s chest.

Dr. Ogden nodded distractedly. “Certainly less effort needed than for a duller weapon, like a letter opener or screw driver.” She kept turning a second photograph around and then consulting the companion report. She paused again, tapping the black and white image. “I have been staring at this photograph since I got here. What do you think of this?” 

Brushing his hand against hers, he ignored the tingling sensation he felt, and seeking better light, he brought the photograph in his hand closer under the over-head bulbs. He saw the marks on the priest’s chest which concerned her, bracketing the stab mark. They bothered him too. “From the knife?” 

“What do you make of it?” she insisted.

“An odd entry angle? Or an asymmetrical hilt on the blade?”

She nodded. “Yes...but...Doesn’t it look familiar somehow?”

He had seen plenty of stab wounds before --- all on corpses. A knife -- if long and sharp enough -- was going to hit something vital, ending a life when it went in, or if not, making more damage as it was retrieved. The photograph revealed someone shoved it hard enough to get the whole blade in the body, right to the hilt. He had personal experience with how much force that takes. He shuddered, putting that war memory away. It had no place in domestic matters… He snuck a look at Dr. Ogden, to make sure she did not see his momentary weakness. 

She appeared to be oblivious. “I wish I had the body to look at --”

“Doctor! We will not be exhuming Father Doulton’s earthly remains!” he warned, assuming she was serious and not teasing this time. 

She sighed. “I suppose not. If we can identify the knife it might be a clue. Dr. Kockel in Leipzig has written on striation matching and the geometry of knife edges for forensic identification,” she murmured, reabsorbed in the image.

“Yes!” He was immediately energized, in his mind seeing how math might help the case. “Dr. Kockel identified how the geometry morphs as the angle of the blade changes during an attack. We can work backwards from the wound to the blade.” He imagined doing it...until he realized he’d need the actual wound, so they were back to exhuming a body. “Well, it might not stand up in court…” he told her quickly.

“Are you sure? Look at this again with me. I have seen this before.” she insisted, pulling at his jacket until he came beside her to look at the same image together. “Doesn’t it look familiar to you?”

He peered at the black and white image. “Possibly…”

“Look, Detective...I have been coroner a week. So, I cannot have encountered it on the job. And certainly not during my rotations at medical school. So, it must be from the war when I was nursing. What about a military knife?”

Gooseflesh swarm over him, as all at once he was back in France feeling hot blood flow across his hand, frightened eye to frightened eye with a German soldier as life pulsed out of the enemy and all over both their uniforms. Murdoch’s hand automatically jerked, remembering pulling the knife out of the man’s throat, surprised how little resistance the tendons and flesh had put up as he pulled it out. 

He turned his back to her to escape, orienting himself to his surroundings, naming to himself what he saw or what was under his fingers now -- the floor, the lights, the instruments, the hard, cold edge of the gurney -- as if they were a lifeline to a drowning man. 

“ _ Nahkampfmesser.’  _ he rasped, then cleared his throat trying to steady himself. “It’s a German trench knife. The common soldiers had them, suitable for stabbing and slashing. Lots of our boys brought them home as souvenirs.” 

Murdoch’s pulse raced. He’d fought to the death with his German prisoner, throwing the knife away in disgust after what he’d done. The idea of keeping it as a souvenir was nauseating and abhorrent, yet his memory refused to let go of it. He sketched the hilt to show her: an ‘s’ curved hilt, which explained the bruise marks perfectly. With effort, he turned to her. “I imagine you saw wounds caused by trench blades in soldiers you cared for. You did say you seldom forget a wound you treated. It is how you identified Mr. Knox for us.”

“Goodness. We are looking for a soldier as our killer?” Dr. Ogden sounded shocked, and sad.

“Not necessarily...Hundreds of these knives must be in circulation.”

She bit her lip, turned abruptly away to rifle through the pages on the gurney, lifting one up as if it were a newly discovered treasure. “What if I were to tell you I think Father Adam Doulton served in the war, just like you and I did? He has a maple-leaf military tattoo.”


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**2000 hours, Thursday June 29th, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

“Murdoch, get in here!”

_ Good Lord!  _ Murdoch jumped at the command coming from the inspector’s darkened doorway. 

His train had pulled into Union Station at seven-thirty, depositing him and Dr. Ogden on the platform to go their separate ways. He expected to spend the evening in his office reorganizing his investigations. That his boss was waiting for him, in the dark, did not bode well. Removing his hat, he hid his displeasure and presented himself to Brackenreid’s desk. “Sir.” 

“Shut the door.” Brackenreid ordered as he turned his desk lamp on.

Murdoch accommodated and returned to the desk. He knew better than to sit. 

Brackenreid wasted no time. “I had an interesting conversation with one of the city managers tonight, Murdoch, who gave me a head’s up about tomorrow's newspaper headlines. Let’s just say they are not kind to the constabulary. Please tell me you have something from your little side trip to Hamilton.”

“How did they find out, sir?” He guessed the problem. 

Brackenreid’s colour immediately reached his hairline. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Never you mind. It seems you and I have kept our noses a little too clean.”

His guts sank. “Meaning?” he asked, afraid he knew the answer. 

“Meaning we are not beholden enough to some of the interests in our fair city!” Brackenreid slammed a fist on his desk. “As for how they found out about your sojourn to down the pike, I’d stake my life it was no one from this Station House.” 

He considered the reach of corruption into the constabulary. As ambitious and vulnerable to flattery as Brackenreid was, his boss was often unable to hide his contempt for ‘the gentry’ as he called Toronto’s movers and shakers. That incorruptibility made him politically unpalatable in some quarters, dragging down his aspirations to higher office. Murdoch admired him for that. It also confirmed his suspicion they were being set up.

_ I wonder who might be lying in wait to take Brackenreid’s job?  _

He listed in his head the men who might fit the bill. Then he recalled the not-so-subtle hints Detective Travers dropped all day about relocating to Toronto for a position. “Sir, I think the information came from a source in Hamilton.”

“Bah,” Brackenreid snorted. “It's all bollocks. I need results. What else did you learn, and don’t leave anything out.” 

He took a full minute to organize his thoughts while Brackenreid glared at him. Murdoch began by clearing his throat. “Sir. Regarding Rocco Perri’s operation in Hamilton, Travers, the lead detective there, believes Perri’s bootlegging operation includes an industrial-scale distillation operation stolen from the moth-balled Royal Distillery and removed to a secret location. If we believe Perri is not only stealing large quantities of alcohol but is sourcing it by legally  _ purchasing _ denatured alcohol with the intention to redistill it to remove the adulterants, then there is a certain logic to that theory. It could explain the origins of the poisoned alcohol from a botched redistilling effort.”

“But, I can tell you haven’t bought the idea.”

“No sir, not completely. How does one steal a warehouse full of equipment and not be seen doing it, then reconstitute it and get it up and running again, also all in secret? The Royal Distillery complex is not especially close to the docks or to the trains and is not in an isolated location. So how do you move those enormous copper vats? To run an operation like that takes many men, infrastructure for all that -- water, drains, heat, light…” 

Brackenreid grunted. “How do you get all those people to keep their traps shut?”

“Exactly, sir. The Hamilton Constabulary have no idea where this new huge redistilling operation is housed -- and they’ve looked everywhere. Without finding it, we can’t possibly trace the poisoned liquor back to Rocco Perri.”

“Which is motive for that priest Doulton’s murder. Someone, what, confessed to him? Or he figured it out and so someone had to silence him. Do Detective Travers and you have any leads?”

This was the part he dreaded. On the train home he and Julia poured over the facts of the case as they understood them. “Sir. There are no reliable witnesses. No physical evidence tying any specific person to the murder. Detective Travers says there are none of the usual indications from their network of informants that someone is boasting of the crime, etcetera. We...well, Dr. Ogden--”

Brackenreid erupted. “What about your trip today has anything to do with Dr. Ogden?”

“She, um, just showed up on the train to Hamilton this morning, sir...” He cringed inside, talking faster to cut his boss off from any more agitation. “...Using initiative, she confirmed a number of poisoning victims who got sick on methyl-alcohol but did not die. This confirms my hypothesis it was not a small, mom-and-pop operation. And probably not intentionally targeting people, either, unless you speculate it was done to specifically kill as many random people as possible.” He let that sink in. 

“Even if a colossal accident, it still makes Rocco Perri a murdering son of a bitch,” his boss said acidly.

“That it does, sir. Dr. Ogden also discovered Father Doulton was killed by what we believe is a German trench knife _ ,  _ probably brought back as a souvenir.” 

Brackenreid nodded at him to continue. 

“From Dr. Ogden’s review of the autopsy records, and Detective Travers’ information, we learned Adam Doulton served in the war, although not where or when.  I telegraphed the veteran’s office for more information.” 

Brackenreid pondered the new angle. “You think it is important?” 

“Possibly sir. I won’t know until I hear back, hopefully tomorrow morning.” Instantly, all the speculation he and Julia churned up on the trip back to Toronto was too thin and insubstantial to lay out, other than his uncomfortable twist in his gut about the case. “Sir, some things are just not adding up.” 

“Now what?” His boss leaned forward over his desk, grabbing an apple and munching down. 

He chose his words carefully. “Sir. It’s the crime scene. It...it is too...neat.” He opened his hands and exhaled. “No signs of struggle. No fingerprints. No physical evidence.”

“So -- whoever the killer was, surprised the priest. Overpowered him. In, out.” Brackenreid mimicked a jabbing motion with his apple.

“Sir...Father Doulton was a man in his prime, six foot tall, who served in the military. Hardly easy to overpower.” 

Brackenreid’s face sharpened. “So...you are saying he knew his assailant?” 

“Or was not afraid of him. What if it was a police officer, or someone connected to the city or constabulary who killed Father Doulton?”

“Shit…” Brackenreid shook his head. “Careful, Murdoch, you are on thin ice.”

“Sir...We, you and I at least, have been concerned with corruption surrounding our investigation.” Brackenreid stopped chewing. “Think about it. How could an entire industrial-sized bootlegging business operate -- invisibly -- unless it was protected by the establishment, like Hodge suggested? A police officer would know to clean up so thoroughly after the crime.” 

Brackenreid laughed sourly. “You’re saying there is a conspiracy at the highest levels in Hamilton  _ and  _ Toronto to hide and profit off of Perri’s bootlegging operation?” 

“It has a certain logic to it.”

“Logic! Don’t look so pained about it.” Brackenreid scoffed. “When are you going to learn life is a messy business and murder more so? But you are right about one thing: Rocco Perri only cares about his profits, no matter how he gets them, or who he has to pay off.” 

Murdoch saw through the skeptical tone -- despite the protest, the idea shook his boss, deeply. 

Brackenreid tried to smooth his hair, then leaned back in his chair, letting the springs creak. “Follow your theory if you have to, Murdoch, but don’t breathe a word of it. To anyone. And no impolite questions! An accusation of a scandal like that will get us both shifted off to counting pencils somewhere unpleasant, understood?” 

“Understood.” Even as he said it, he was rehearsing questions: pointed, difficult and often offensive ones. 

“Well, while you were out lollygagging, some real police work got done around here.” His boss came forward in his chair again. “Crabtree and Higgins found you the name of a woman, Lydia O’Mara, who started writing Landswell letters about a month before he was killed.”

He perked up. “Was this Miss O’Mara a discarded lover perhaps?”

“No, it didn’t sound like that to me. The letters ask for a meeting. Some nonsense about a painting she claimed was stolen, of all things. Seen it in a fancy house, she says in the letter, and asks his help. We don’t know where the woman is now, but we know where she saw the painting two months ago.” Brackenreid’s expression was cross as he slid a slip of paper over the desk. 

When he saw the address, he could not help himself. “Oh...damn...!” 


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

**10:00 pm Thursday June 29th**

**Rosedale**

Detective Murdoch breezed up on his motorcycle to a stately home in posh Rosedale just before 10 p.m. Glancing through the front window, he saw a party already going strong, the sounds of the Club Royal Orchestra’s _ The Sheik _ audible from the street.

Despite the music and loud chatter, he hadn’t put his hand up to knock before a door swung open and a butler ushered him in, wordlessly taking his hat. Walking into the room, he searched for a familiar face to get his bearings amongst a throng of men and glamorously dressed women, nodding thanks when handed a glass which turned out to be of champagne. Oddly, he did not feel the urge to down it, but he carried it anyway to have something to do with his hands while he looked around.

“Detective! How wonderful you came! Julia didn’t tell me, that devil, she’s a sly one!” the unmistakable voice of Ruby Ogden exclaimed. “I am on my way...er...out, but, come, you must meet mother -- she’ll be thrilled you’re here,” Linking her arm through his, Ruby dragged him into a small parlor where a mature, yet striking woman stood in front of a painting, excitedly gesturing towards it.

“Mother, you must meet Detective Murdoch, one of Julia’s colleagues,” Ruby interrupted. 

The woman raised an eyebrow as though she were sizing him up before smiling; he could immediately see Ruby in the woman’s round, classical features and he squirmed inside under her gaze. He set the champagne down quickly, embarrassed to have it in his hand.

“Lucinda Ogden.” The woman held her hand out for him and he bowed to graze it with his lips as if he were a gentleman caller and not a detective on police business. “My, Ruby, you and Mick weren’t exaggerating when you said he was attractive...and you both tell me he has a mind to match? That’s simply unfair,” she drawled. 

_ They’re discussing me with her?!  _

Though it had been a long time since he’d been in polite society, he automatically came up with an appropriate comeback. “I believe you should be concerned at the exaggeration of which Dr. McDaniels and your daughters are capable.” 

With a musical laugh, Lucinda Ogden shook her head. “I believe I can see with my own eyes, Detective.”

He cleared his throat, wanting to move on as quickly as possible. “I do hate to intrude upon your hostessing duties, but this is not a social call. I have some questions about an investigation, and I believe you possess information that could assist me greatly.” 

“Of course, Detective. I’d be happy to tell you anything I know, but could it wait a few minutes? I’m about to introduce some artist friends...which are the whole reason for this soiree…” she explained with a wave of her elegant hand.

“Of course, Mrs. Ogden,” he agreed as the woman nodded and moved into the main salon. Miss Ruby Ogden disappeared, leaving him unchaperoned with nothing to do but look at the artwork.

Staring at the painting Mrs. Ogden had been showing off, Murdoch didn’t recognize the artist, but there was something compelling about the subject -- an attractive young woman wearing little else but a scarf strategically wrapped around her body, head thrown back in ecstasy as she sat in a garden swing. The painting was sensual, suggestive...not entirely unlike the images he’d looked at with Julia Ogden in the Jackson’s apartment. He closed his eyes as those memories flooded back, his mental images conflating themselves with the painting. A lithe body and curly strawberry blonde hair…

“Maxfield Parrish.” The contralto voice belonging to the other Miss Ogden was at his ear. “It’s called ‘The Swing: Summer.’ Quite a striking image, don’t you think?” 

He turned to acknowledge her. “Good evening...um, Julia.” She was wearing yet another diaphanous dress, this one light green. 

“The woman is wearing something, yet practically nothing, leading one to ask why she bothered. All that hair is a striking contrast to the palest of sky behind her… The image certainly reminds one of something though I can’t seem to put my finger on it...can you?” 

He returned only a faint smile. 

“What a surprise to see you here! Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you came, but knowing you, this is not a social call,” she said, taking a sip of her own champagne.

“No. I believe your mother has information on a person of interest. I hope she will be able to offer me some insight,” he assured her.

“Understood. Allow her to make her speech, and then I’ll bring her to you myself...if there’s not anything else I can get you…” she asked, a glint in her eye.

_ Those Ogden women don’t hide their intent, that’s for sure!  _ Keeping his wits about him was going to be necessary. He waved her off.

“Are you sure? Have you eaten yet? At least let me get you some food while we wait,” she offered again. 

As if on cue, his stomach growled. “I suppose it’s been a while since I ate,” he agreed as she led him to the kitchen. She produced a selection of tiny canapes and a lemonade which he thankfully accepted in exchange for the champagne he’d left behind.

“As soon as she’s done speaking and I’ll bring her back here, if that’s all right,” Julia explained.

Wiping a crumb from his mouth, he nodded. “That will be fine,” he said, finishing the lemonade and meeting her gaze. “This is not the first kitchen I have been left waiting in.” 

Excusing herself, she left the kitchen, and he relaxed somewhat, still thinking how to phrase the questions he needed to ask Mrs. Ogden. Women were a challenge for him at the best of times, and given that this was a powerful, popular woman in Society who just so happened to be the mother of his new coroner made it particularly tricky. He took out his notebook and reviewed the questions he’d rehearsed when, as promised, Julia returned with her mother.

Julia grabbed a bottle of champagne. “I will leave you two to conduct business, while I enjoy the yard.”

“Thank you, Dr. Ogden. Mrs. Ogden, I promise this will be brief, but as I explained to your daughter, I believe you may have some insight that will help me in an investigation. You are not a suspect,” he reassured her.

“Oh, relax, Detective. I will be more fascinating a hostess if I am thought to have knowledge of a police investigation, and disappearing for a few minutes does lend one an air of mystery… particularly when I am seen to be alone with such a handsome man...Perhaps the guests will assume you and I are up to something scandalous,” Mrs. Ogden laughed delightedly.

_ Now, I see the resemblance to Julia. _

Thrown off balance by the woman’s humour, he decided if it helped her cooperate with him, he’d use it. Forcing a smile, he leaned in. “I understand you are an art connoisseur, and I’m curious about one painting and one guest in particular…”

“Which was…?”

“A young woman named Miss Lydia O’Mara made a scene at one of your salons a little over three months ago. She was upset about a painting you were displaying at the time.”

“Oh, yes! I remember a young lady did cause quite a stir. I don’t recall who dragged her along, but she’d been rather out of her element, poor dear, indifferent to the art until she heard me tell another friend the name of the painting. She asked me to repeat it, twice. She looked as if I’d slapped her then asked to see the painting off the wall. I was so taken aback I agreed. She looked it over, front and back then just ran off without even saying goodbye.”

“Could you give me her description?”

“I can do better than that! One of the artists here is a portraitist who wanted to draw her -- so fresh faced he called her -- so I am sure he has a sketch or two. In fact, he may be able to do a nice rendering of her. How exciting! Let me go fetch him.” 

As it turned out, the artist had a few sketches of Miss O’Mara at his studio and agreed to complete one and deliver it to the station house. He thanked Mrs. Ogden, satisfied with the evening’s work and set out to look for Julia to thank her as well for her assistance. 

He found her in the backyard with her champagne, gazing at the stars as she sat on a swing in her flowing dress, the image so similar to the painting hanging in her mother’s salon. Jazz music from the party wafted onto the lawn and mixed with the smell of lilies. 

“Was my mother helpful?” she asked, taking a sip. 

“Very much so. I have new leads to explore tomorrow, and hopefully you will have a quiet day to catch up with all of your work.”

“Let’s also hope the poisoner will take some time off, or better yet, imbibed a bit of their own product and saved us all the trouble.” Her laugh sounded bitter. She dipped her head. “I suppose I have offended you; it’s understandable you’d like to bring them to justice yourself.” 

“I would.” After a long silence, he felt compelled to end it. “It is a beautiful, warm night.” He gestured to the southwest where the moon was setting. 

“It is... just as it was ten years ago tonight,” she giggled.

“Oh? What happened ten years ago?”

“Let’s call it my first acquaintance with the Toronto Constabulary...when I was arrested.” Her laugh this time was lighter, swallowed by her next sip of her champagne.

“What heinous crime were you charged with?” he wondered, half curious and half concerned.

“Well, it was a hot night, and some friends and I decided to do a bit of swimming at Hanlan’s Point.”

“Since that is not a crime, I’ll wager there was more to it than that.” 

“We decided lack of bathing costumes was not going to stop us. In retrospect, we were too loud and disturbed nearby residents, who called the constabulary on us,” she moved a slender shoulder in a shrug. “In some ways, it seems more than a decade ago...it seems a lifetime ago.” She sighed, setting her glass down. 

“A lot happened in those ten years...many lifetimes ago, in fact,” he agreed, offering her a hand up from the swing. She remained close to him, her scent mingling with the flowers.

“Did you enjoy my mother’s new painting?” she whispered.

“Were you planning on  _ fully _ recreating that painting here in the garden?” he asked, enjoying the faint blush that appeared on her cheeks at the  risqué  suggestion. Perhaps he’d misjudged her, reconsidering his earlier thinking about Dr. McDaniels.

“That would certainly create quite the scandal, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s your garden…”

“Is that a challenge? You should know that I don’t back down from a dare?” she teased back.

“Of that I have no doubt.” he retorted.  _ I don’t need to dare you when I have an imagination, do I?  _ Laughing, he shook his head, hardly recognizing his own wayward thoughts.

In return, she said nothing, but looked as though she were seriously considering it. Before she spoke, they both heard Dr. McDaniel’s voice called from the French doors. “Oh, Julia darling, are you out here?” 

He noticed a look of disappointment cross her face as he took a self-conscious step back. “Good night, Julia. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he bid her, and retreated before he got himself in deeper than he should.

#######

**2330 hours -- Thursday June 29th**

**222 Ontario Street**

Murdoch whistled while he put his motorcycle away in the shed off the back alley, a catchy refrain from Mr. Berlin’s  _ Some Sunny Day  _ stuck in his head, the last song he heard as he left the Ogden family estate. He made his way across the small garden to his kitchen door, humming to himself. He had the name of the gallery who rented the painting, to visit tomorrow. He would soon possess a sketch of a red-haired Miss O’Mara to use for his investigation, certain she was the same woman Mr. Landswell’s ex-fiancée reported seeing at Landswell’s office -- the same woman who wrote to Landswell, that Brackenreid said was asking for help. On the way home, he’d used the time to let his mind work on the mountain of information he’d been collecting, letting a few things settle into place, hoping more was going to fit together. 

_ Julia was right earlier today,  _ he said to himself.  _ Policemen do not like coincidences, not at all.  _ The spectre of career-ending scandal aside, he was optimistic as he used his key in the door. 

Once inside, he inhaled and savoured the smell of this morning's bacon and tomorrow’s bread proofing in a cool corner. A small plate of bread and cheese was left for him under a glass dome. “Bless you, Mrs. Kitchen!” he whispered, folding the napkin into a bindle and taking his snack with him. He went quietly through the dining room to the front parlour without turning on a light, his feet soft on the hall carpet so as not to disturb Mrs. Kitchen in her rooms on the main floor. In light from the streetlamp coming through the transom above the front door, he scooped up his mail and took the stairs past his second-floor boarders to his private rooms on the third floor. 

Moving his legs up the two flights of stairs was a tonic. He was exhausted, yet his mind remained active and engaged in solving the vexing problems before him, simultaneously trying to explain several intertwined factors: 

Number one: How to avoid the whole-sale corruption scandal about to swallow him and Brackenreid. 

Number two: How and to where did Rocco Perri possibly ‘disappear’ the Royal distilling operation, if the Hamilton police’s theory is correct? 

Number three: How (and where) was the poisoned alcohol created and disseminated? 

Number four: What relevance, if any, was there to Father Doulton being a veteran? 

Number five: How was a purportedly stolen oil painting motive for Landswell’s murder? 

Number six: What had any of it to do with Howard Knox? 

His instinct was that there was something just --  _ off  _ about it all. Try as he might, he was struggling with making all these pieces of information form a coherent theory of the crime --- or was it crimes? It was like a missing square or sliding block puzzle -- one of the few entertainments he allowed himself -- but one which was made improperly, refusing to resolve into the correct shape. 

His brain clicked along with it anyway. He opened the door to his rooms at the top of the stairs and flicked the light switch on. When he purchased the house from the newly widowed Beatrice Kitchen, installing her as housekeeper and manager for the boarding house operation, the first thing he did was create rooms for him and Liza in what had been the attic -- two small bedrooms, a small sitting room and a bathroom -- just enough for him and Liza to start their family. Liza had been so thrilled to select the paint and wallpapers, choose the carpet runners for their little ‘nest’ as she called it. Tonight, as most of his days and nights, he ignored all of it. 

He went directly to his bedroom, turning on another light and the electrical air-cooling unit he built and installed there, which started its work with a low hum. He removed his hat and suit jacket, placing them carefully aside in his wardrobe, then unbuttoned his collar and took his cufflinks out of his sleeves, also carefully setting those aside. His mail and Mrs. Kitchen’s thoughtful snack he tossed on the bed while he finished disrobing and used the bathroom. Feeling more settled he sat on the bed to go through his post before turning in, enjoying the cold air blowing on him, nibbling on the bread and cheese which were delicious and more to his taste than the exotic fare served at Lucinda Ogden’s soiree. More filling too.

He looked at his bedside telephone, thought about calling Brackenreid, then sighed. Why disturb the boss when tomorrow would do? Especially because if today was a long one, tomorrow was shaping up to be worse. Sighing in exhaustion, he leaned back and let his mind drift to Julia, allowing his imagination to picture her as the painting, a similar expression to one Julia would have in ecstasy… 

His breath shallow, he swallowed as ripples cascaded through his body. Rattled by the sensations he jumped up and ran to the bathroom, sticking his head under the sink tap to clear his mind. Drying his hair off, he breathed deep to purge any remaining fantasies and sought distraction in the mail, sorting through it. He was happy to see a cheque from one of his patents, setting bills aside, when his hand came across a thick envelope postmarked from Toronto and the law offices of Jennings and Ford. 

His good mood fled. He dropped it on the bed and pushed the envelope away from him with a finger, contemplating ignoring it, leaving it alone.  _ Why deal with it now? What’s another few days, give or take three years?  _

He spun the gold band on his left hand with the thumb and first finger of his right -- the hard circle used to be a symbol of their indissoluble bond. It wasn’t the first time he contemplated being disconnected from her, but it was painful all the same. Sometimes he’d take the ring off -- a few hours, overnight, just to see -- always returning it to his hand. The envelope lay on the coverlet, mocking him. Without even opening it, he knew it was going to contain the necessary paperwork to divorce Liza. He hated to open it, yet he just couldn't look away. 

_ Coward! It's not a snake!  _ Murdoch opened it and read the cover letter, full of logic and legalese. By the time he was done he was utterly deflated.

Slowly, dully, like being dragged along on Mr. Ford’s assembly line against his will, he turned off the cold air, got up and showered, re-bandaged his hand, re-dressed and went downstairs, absently taking the bread and cheese with him in his pocket as he locked the back door and headed for the alley in the hot night air. 

His wedding ring he left upstairs on the top of his highboy dresser.


	23. Chapter 23

**Dear Reader: We hope you like what we have done with the place! The war (and its aftermath) changed everything -- profoundly -- both socially and individually. In our version, Brax doesn’t drink (much, anyway) and the war made him a more devoted family man, as well as made his swearing just an every-day part of his vocabulary. George’s war experience made him a bit more anxious/excitable, but he found his vocation (and his home) at Station House No 4, and made his bonds with William and Brax even stronger. William even encourages his creativity. Henry was too young to serve and therefore is really of a different generation than those who did, but also makes him more in tune with the roaring twenties sensibilities. Ruby is...well,** **_Ruby!_ ** **Julia was in the thick of the war then left for medical school after having a substantial introduction to actual medicine and nursing, but instead of setting her up for a bright future, it is proving to be a hindrance. Unlike George, she hasn’t found her place yet. William blamed himself for how the war changed him and led to troubles with his marriage, which proved to unman him…literally. How will they get through the challenges they face..?**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

**Seven-ten a.m. Friday June 30th**

**Queen’s Hotel**

_ “Julia? Julia? Let me in!”  _

The loud pounding on her door was insistent. Julia had had a wonderful, if extended night at her mother’s soiree, topped off by an interlude of sorts with William Murdoch. She was a little afraid the reason Ruby was demanding entrance was to verify if the bet between them had been...consummated... for lack of a better word. 

Well, she thought, only in my dreams...  __

_ “Julia! I have great news!”  _ Julia opened her door to admit a yellow whirlwind, the center of which was her sister. “I went back to the office last night and, well...I am going to have an article in today’s edition. On page one!” He sister excitedly waved a galley sheet at her. Only Ruby could handle fresh printing ink without it smearing everywhere on her sunny-coloured outfit.

“Ruby, I am running late.” Julia hopped on one foot while trying to get her shoe on the other. She was hungry and thirsty and dying for a coffee. “Can’t it wait?”

“Well, it is a sidebar really and it continues on page four. After Mother’s party I waited up all night until I got a copy.” 

_ It must be something to have Ruby working all night. _ “That’s wonderful and I can tell you are excited.”

“My _ own _ name, Julia, not a  _ nom de plume _ !”

“That is wonderful, truly. It really is,” and she meant it too. “I promise I will read it at work when I have the time, but I have a great deal to accomplish today.” She stuffed her ‘autopsy outfit’ of shirt and trousers into her leather bag and swung it over her shoulder. Outside in the hallway a dinner cart went by with a coffee pot and the smell went right from her nose to her brain cells, which clamored to receive their morning dose of caffeine. “Congratulations. Now, out of my way and lock the door behind you.”

Ruby planted herself between Julia and the open doorway. “Do those accomplishments have anything to do with a notice in the personals about Miss Olive Routledge? They tell me the subscription is for two weeks.”

_ No wonder my sister is a journalist, she is a world class snoop.  _ “I am trying to locate family of a suicide victim so her children can be reunited with them. Apparently, no one is interested in women who kill themselves or fatherless children.”

“That is rather harsh. Give me something -- a good lead and a compelling story about these orphans and I will see what I can do. At the moment, I remain dedicated to investigating bootlegging.” Ruby’s eyes glowed in anticipation. “I plan to finally get my big break, and soon.” She swirled her yellow skirt for emphasis. 

Julia recalled William’s warning. If he thought  _ she _ took unnecessary risks, he had no idea how impervious to caution her sister was. “Don’t, Ruby. Don’t go alone pursuing that story. It's not safe. Just promise me. Detective Murdoch has warned me and I want to warn you too…”

“Ha!” Ruby scoffed. “At the rate he is going, Detective Murdoch needs all the help he can get, if he gets to keep his job at all…” 

Julia’s irritation bubbled over. “Ruby, just once listen to me! We are doing the best we can; he is doing the best he can. Please, all I ask is that you do not pursue your own stories, especially these investigations into criminal gangs, without having someone guard your back.”

“I am not a child, Jules,” she said angrily. “I have my sources and my supports. You are the one who always has to go against the grain and go it alone!” With that, Ruby retreated down the hall to her own rooms, leaving Julia gaping after her.

She sighed, then gathered her belongings and started for work, upset they’d been so tense with each other. Her bag bounced against her thigh as she went down the staircase, past Ruby’s door, knowing she did not have time that moment to smooth things over. On the way to her motorcar she promised herself to do something conciliatory. 

_ I’ll have to make that up to her later. I can go on and on about praising her new article, whatever it is; that should be easy enough… _

****

**0750 hours, Friday June 30th**

**Station House No. 4**

Murdoch folded the front page of the  _ Toronto Star _ along its crease and placed it on a pile with the others.  _ Brackenreid wasn’t kidding when he said the papers were going to be unkind to the Toronto Police Department in general and him and me in particular. _

In his view, the various articles took the names of the dead, a few facts, several rumours and then embroidered the most lurid interpretation possible over the whole affair, casting the constabulary in the worst possible light. ‘Absurd’, ‘blundering’, ‘bungling’, ‘floundering’, ‘inadequate’, ‘incompetent’, ‘inept’, ‘otiose’, and ‘slap-dash’ were the kinder words. Culled alphabetically, no doubt, from the O.E.D., he observed sarcastically.  _ Crabtree will get more of his education today.  _ One of the more erudite sidebars excoriating the pace of the investigations had Ruby Ogden’s byline; he was only grateful it did not include a quote from the Toronto City Coroner. 

He exhaled sharply, gathering his wits for what was going to be a long, hard day. The men were about to arrive and expected him to be calm and organized. At the first stirrings outside his door, he looked up to see who it was.  _ Henry Higgins was never early to work _ \-- and managed an affirming nod in the young man’s direction despite his pounding head. 

He pushed his surprise aside to rub his temple. The coffee was not doing its job, but at least he was alert. He had ten minutes until the inspector arrived, then after roll call, the boss was going to expect him to lay out the day’s work and assign tasks to the men. He’d spent all night trying to organize just that, waiting while the clock hands slowly turned, testing his patience which was on the frayed side. 

He smoothed out the telegram which had come in at six; unashamed he’d made a crumpled mess of it upon receipt. On one of his chalkboards was the result of his night’s work -- hours of it to support his theory -- until the telegram showed up.  __

Going for the telephone, he dialed the morgue for the umpteenth time, desperate to consult Dr. Ogden. It had only been force of will which prevented him from ringing her at her lodgings -- or showing up there. He was about to give up, when the ringing stopped and a young voice said, “City Morgue. This is Jack Lester. May I help you?”

_ Oh, I hope so. _ “Hello. Mr. Lester. This is Detective Murdoch. Has Dr. Ogden arrived yet?” He sent a prayer she was there.

“Yes. One moment.” His pulse counted off the seconds until her voice came on the line.

“Detective Murdoch, good morning!” Her cheery voice did nothing to soothe his nerves.

“Doctor. In your autopsy of Howard Knox, I read nothing to indicate his hands, arms, or shoulders were injured or deformed in any way. Nothing which prevented him from say, lifting or pushing. Is that correct?”

“Yes. What--?”

“Can you tell me please, is there anything in your examination of his body which would suggest to you he was incapable of walking quickly or running?” The other end of the line was silent. “Doctor...?”

“I’m thinking. We discharged men back to recuperate in England -- it is not as if he completed his recovery under my care.” She paused again. “His leg was severely injured, he nearly lost it. He did lose muscle to the injury and infection. He certainly could have sustained nerve damage,”

“And at autopsy?” He pressed her. “Can you offer anything definitive?”

She exhaled into the mouthpiece. “Why not just ask someone who knew him when he was alive, Detective?” 

“Because we may never find a soul who saw him try to hurry. Please, Doctor…” He was almost begging. The line remained silent.

“His right leg was physically smaller, weaker, than his left. He might have walked normally, perhaps some small hesitation on stairs. But running? I think he’d have been able to move, but not...smoothly,” she offered.

Through the office windows, he viewed his men coming in for shift change. They were good men and he was about to push them to their limits. 

“Thank you, Doctor.”

***** 

Murdoch informed Brackenreid of his new theory of the crimes, making his boss forget the headlines. His boss was still slack jawed when he began addressing the assembled men. “First off --Constable Higgins. Good work yesterday.” 

“Thank you, sir!” 

He could not miss the pride on Higgins’ youthful face, his smile emphasizing his scar. According to Crabtree, when Higgins smiled like that, the girls flocked to him. “You too, Constable Crabtree, for identifying Miss Lydia O’Mara as someone who made a complaint to Conrad Landswell. Well done.” He let the two men bask in a little praise from their mates.  _ Someone might as well be happy today.  _ He thought Higgins blushed. 

He cleared his throat. “Last evening I followed up on your lead, we can speculate Miss O’Mara is the same red-haired woman Miss Edwina Virgil saw arguing with Conrad Landswell last Monday.” He wrote ‘Lydia O’Mara’ on the chalkboard next to Landswell’s name. “It turns out she was interested in a piece of what she claimed was stolen art.”

“Same girl? So, the redhead wasn’t some tart? I thought the idea was Landswell wasn’t getting his rasher at home, so he had a little extra on the side.” Constable Higgins’ comment drew some laughter. “I know I would.”

“Shut it, Higgins, no one is as randy as you!” Brackenreid launched a sharp rebuke, getting more chuckles from the men. 

Murdoch didn’t think it was funny and gave Higgins his own cautionary stare. “No. The  _ lady  _ asked for Mr. Landswell’s help, apparently desperately, and he turned her down, leaving her upset, perhaps feeling betrayed. There is your motive, which makes finding her essential to our case.” 

“We are back to thinking this woman was involved in poisoning Landswell,” Brackenreid managed to say.

Murdoch passed out sheets of stiff paper to each man. “Here is a sketch of her likeness and I have asked Miss Virgil to come by to verify this is the woman she saw with Conrad Landswell. Age approximately twenty to twenty-five, thin build, average height, dark red hair, brown eyes. She did not have a broad accent, so please, do not describe her as Scots or Irish when you are looking for her. As soon as Miss Virgil confirms her identity, go back to Landswell’s office and canvas the shops with this likeness. Constables Crabtree and Higgins: keep going through Landswell’s correspondence. Look for anything else -- no matter how insignificant -- which might be interpreted as a threat, and add anything to do with a theft or concerning art or other valuable objects.” He got sober nods from everyone.

“Gentlemen,” he continued, “for our other investigation, a man named Father Adam Doulton was murdered in Hamilton, the alleged motive being his public prohibition work in that city. It turns out, he also served in the war before taking up the collar. War service is hardly an unusual development, considering how many of us did.” 

He flipped his chalkboard, writing ‘Knox’ and ‘Doulton’ at the top of the blank board. “What I gathered in Hamilton yesterday is that Father Doulton’s murder was well planned and executed, with the police investigation into his death was unusually free of physical evidence--”

“Cause the Hamilton coppers don’t have us doin’ their work for ‘em. Thick as two planks,” Worseley commented, getting snickers from the men and a growl from Hodge for his impertinence. 

He gave a tight smile. “Yesterday, with Dr. Ogden’s help, we determined Father Doulton was killed with a German trench knife. At first, I speculated the assassin, because the priest’s death has some of the hallmarks of an assassination, was a member of Rocco Perri’s gang. Then, I became convinced the killer was actually a rogue member of the Hamilton police force.” This generated outraged remarks from the entire room. He put his hands up to quiet them down. “But I don’t believe that anymore.” He did believe there was corruption insulating Rocco Perri, but Brackenreid warned him not to speculate out loud, even amongst the men. 

He pointed back to the chalkboard. “What I learned early this morning from a telegraph sent to me by the Canadian Expeditionary Force veteran’s office, is that Adam Doulton served in the 2nd Canadian Division Regimental Police, which was what it was called before the Canadian Military Police Corps was formed....” He drew a line between the words ‘Doulton’ and ‘Knox.’ “.... The same regiment as Howard Knox. Quite a few of those souvenir trench knives came home from the war with Canadian soldiers -- someone like Howard Knox. Knox and Father Doulton were acquainted. I theorize that Howard Knox had the skills and the weapon to do the deed, and enough police knowledge to not leave evidence of the crime.” 

Behind him he heard the men grumble and exclaim. “You think Knox killed Father Doulton? But why?” Crabtree, the brightest of the bunch, was first to ask the only question which mattered.

Murdoch ignored him. “What is the only day in the last two weeks before his death we cannot account for anything in Howard Knox’s movements?”

Hodge answered immediately. “Monday June 19th.”

“It ‘just happens’ to be the same day Father Doulton was murdered? That is too great a coincidence, don’t you think? There are no witnesses to Father Doulton’s death  _ per se _ . A man fitting Howard Knox’s general description was seen ‘wobbling away’ from the scene around the estimated time of death. This morning, Dr. Ogden confirmed Howard Knox suffered enough physical injury in his leg from his war wound that, although he may have been able to walk without obvious difficulty, moving quickly or running, his gait would have been noticeably off. Hence the description of  _ wobbling _ .” 

“I thought we decided Howard Knox was a waster, sir,” Hodge objected.

He acknowledged the point. “Yes. Not a fine example of Canadian manhood, was Howard Knox. But the weapon used more than makes up for a lack of size or musculature, as he had no upper body limitations; Dr. Ogden confirmed this as well.”

Crabtree remained puzzled. “What was the motive? Does it bring us back to Rocco Perri? Did Perri pay Knox for an assassination?”

“Knox was in deep to his bookie, drank illegal liquor, associated with unsavoury people. Might he have taken the job to get square with his debts?” Hodge asked. 

“And then who took out Knox?” Higgins asked, brow wrinkled in consternation.

He flicked a gaze at Inspector Brackenreid. _ Here goes. _ “I do not know. That is what you are going to discover for us today. We are following evidence at this point, not motive. Where was Howard Knox on June 19th? You have his photograph: use it. Go find out where he was, this time in a wider search, focused on Monday the 19th, this time especially coming or going to the train station. Go back over where Knox was on the day he died, but instead of looking  _ for  _ him, look at who he was in contact  _ with.  _ Where did he get the cognac which poisoned him? And we are going to look much, much deeper into the connections in these crimes. Because, let’s not forget,” he returned to the chalkboard and wrote the next name, “we have already concluded Conrad Landswell and Howard Knox were poisoned the same way. Knox, Doulton and Landswell --find the connection between these three men, even if it is coincidence.” 

**** 

Murdoch had Hodge supervise the men getting ready for their assignments, allowing him to finally sink into his office chair for some quiet. His teeth were clenched so hard against the pain in his head, he knew just made matters worse. He fished in his desk drawer for another aspirin tablet and took it, getting it down with the last of his coffee. His eyes were barely closed when he heard Brackenreid come across the bull pen to his door. He knew those footsteps anywhere, did not bother to open his eyes this time, curling his bare left hand into his lap so his boss wouldn’t ask too many questions. Brackenreid came in quietly and closed the door behind him, setting a hip on the desk.

“Murdoch,” Brackenreid said his name softly. “Go home and get some sleep. I can take care of Miss Virgil’s identification when she gets here. I don’t know what’s going on, but I bloody-well know you better than the men out there do. I know you were here all night and that you have one of your headaches.” 

“Sergeant Weston tattle on me again?”

“Rank has its privileges. Besides, I pay better bribes, me’ old mucker. You have to be in good working order to get through this shite.” 

He exhaled, slitting his eyes open. “Sir. I’ll be fine. I am confident the men will find a connection between Knox’s and Father Doulton; with any luck a positive identification of Knox in Hamilton, or on the train. I arranged for Knox’s photograph to be shown around Hamilton. We will find Miss O’Mara, then figure out what connection, if any, she has to the rest of it, poison or not. Later this afternoon I will follow up on Constable Worseley’s information on Toronto distilling operations. In a few minutes, I am seeing about the painting rented to Mrs. Ogden which so caught Lydia O’Mara’s eye.”

“I don’t like the idea of Howard Knox being an assassin.” Brackenreid repeated his objection from this morning when Murdoch broke the bad news. “Christ! We should be putting all our efforts into tying up a noose for Rocco Perri.”

“At the beginning, you yourself said Howard Knox was going to be the key to this whole thing, and he is ... just not in the way you imagined.”

His boss made a rude noise. “If Knox killed Doulton, then who killed Knox, knowing to do it the same way as Landswell? Rocco Perri? Where does Miss O’Mara fit in? You got us tied up at square one again.” Brackenreid stood. “Go home. You can’t do anything in your present condition. That's an order.” 

“Sir…” he protested. ‘Home’ was the last place he wanted to be. 

“Look, Murdoch. From the start of this business, we had to determine how Rocco Perri is behind all of this, the whole shebang. Howard Knox, an alkie up to his neck in trouble, is Perri’s paid assassin, uses his past association with Father Doulton to kill him, because Doulton was going to ruin Perri’s bootlegging operation and link him to all those deaths from poisoned alcohol, by disclosing information he obtained from his work as a priest or worse yet, from a confession. Perri then kills Knox to eliminate loose ends, one of which somehow included Conrad Landswell, killing two birds with one stone, as it were, by using the same poisoned cognac.”

Murdoch nodded his head, sorry he did so because the pain flared up. He hissed. “Landswell... friend to the new mayor. In that case, I fear we will confront conspiracy and corruption spanning a large chunk of Toronto if not our province.” The truth lay between them while Brackenreid wrestled with what to do about it.

“Sod, that. Just be right when you pull the trigger, Murdoch.” 

Even with an endorsement, he could tell Brackenreid hated the idea. He offered Brackenreid an alternative. “Or, theory two: Landswell and Knox and Doulton have nothing to do with Rocco Perri. Howard Knox kills his friend Adam Doulton for some as yet unrevealed reason, then commits suicide out of remorse. Or, he is not remorseful, but being an alcoholic, was willing to drink anything which came his way, which just happened to be the same thing that poisoned Mr. Landswell.” 

“Back to bloody coincidence. Which means we are wasting our time looking for your red-haired Miss O’Mara. You have all these people chasing their tails, and us with them. What does your gut tell you?”

At the moment, the combination of coffee and aspirin was burning a hole through the center of his body, drowning out his doubts. “My gut, sir?”

“Well, since that brilliant noggin of yours is not helping you out at the moment...”

“Point taken.” He knew it was a fact. “My guts are being shouted down by my head, sir. Can you get Howard Knox’s picture and Miss O’Mara’s sketch in the afternoon papers? Say they are not suspects, but that they have information vital to an important investigation and we count on the public’s help to locate them? We need more eyes and ears and shoe leather than our station house can possibly put on the job.” He was grateful when his boss nodded. “Thank you, sir. I will get a little rest, get to the gallery, and be back as soon as I get rid of this head.”

Brackenreid stood to leave, then paused, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “Murdoch. It’s none of my business, but I know your headache isn't the real problem. You need to get a grip!”

A sudden cold sliced into him. Thomas Brackenreid had a copper’s instinct for knowing when  _ something _ was wrong-- the same sort of feeling Murdoch still had about this whole mess. “Understood.” 

“Good man.” Brackenreid put a hand on his shoulder and left. He appreciated the warmth of the touch, long after his boss was gone. 


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

**8:05 am, Friday June 30th**

**City Morgue**

Julia thumped the telephone away, marginally annoyed Detective Murdoch assumed she was at her desk before eight and had her brains working before her first cup of caffeine. Coffee now made, she sipped the brew while Jack worked on cleaning the cooler floor and shelving. No new corpses came in overnight, so she used the opportunity to read the papers, starting with Ruby’s story. There it was, the name  _ Ruby Ogden _ in print on the first page -- albeit below the fold -- but front page nonetheless. 

_ Grandmama is rolling over in her grave, since a lady only appears in the papers at her birth, marriage and her death.  _ Julia smiled. _ Well -- Ruby is no lady…and neither am I for that matter. _

The headline and article itself was less amusing.  _ ‘Lazy or Indifferent?’ _ depicted a timeline of the Toronto-area bootleg booze deaths since June 22nd and emphasized the lack of any arrests in the eight days since, alleging the reason for this disgrace was the poverty of the victims. 

Julia nearly tore the pages in half.  _ God! Had it been only eight days? _ Her gasp of displeasure was loud enough to call Jack from the cooler, asking what was wrong.

“Nothing, Jack. Sorry!” She scanned the rest of the headlines -- even more lurid -- and turned to the back page for the personals: “Seeking information in St. Catharines on Miss Olive Routledge. Legacy involved,” followed by a box number. Julia thought dangling the prospect of money was a nice touch. She hoped for results starting today. 

Her first task this morning was going to be locating Olive’s children. She glanced at the clock, deciding if she was up so should the Children’s Aid Society, and grabbed the telephone. “Operator? Please get me long distance. St. Catharines. Yes. The Children's Aid Society please.”

She waited impatiently until a woman’s nasal-pitched voice came on the other end, introducing herself as Mrs. Ashworth. Julia explained what she wanted.

_ “I am sorry Miss Ogden--” _

“Doctor Ogden, the Toronto City Coroner,” Julia corrected.

_ “Yes, well...this is quite irregular. Our organization does not physically hold the children, only rescues them from unhealthy or unsafe situations. Some are abandoned, some are half-orphans, where one parent has died. Some have lost all family. Some are removed from unsuitable parents. The two children you are asking about went to a receiving home. From there they will be placed in an orphanage.” _

Julia copied down the name of the receiving home. “Just how many orphanages are there?”


	25. Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

1000 hours, Friday Morning June 30th 

St. Paul’s Roman Catholic Church

Murdoch felt agitated. He usually enjoyed running his eyes over the interior of St. Paul’s, soothed by the regular symmetry and repetition of the roman arches and linear columns; all the curves, rondelles and round margins were so different from the jagged edges of life -- or at least his life. He’d been struggling with what to say to his priest, his friend, trying to decide what lines to cross and which ones to stay behind. 

This morning the disquiet followed him into the sanctuary where his eyes refused to rise above the backs of the pews. In his mind, all he could see was Liza -- the curve of her cheek, the delicate laugh lines around her eyes, the sweep of her bottom lip. He sat there on an oak pew waiting for Eddie to finish with a last confession, unable to kneel and pray, his hat in his left fist to hide its nakedness. 

A black-clad widow exited the right-hand curtained booth to take her place in the sanctuary to pray. He sat patiently outside the confessional until the center curtain twitched, then Eddie came out to join him.

“How may I be of assistance?” Eddie’s voice was gentle, a touch of humour in the question.

So, do you need your priest or your friend? Father Edward or Eddie? He wavered, afraid that if he started talking about Liza he’d break down again, and that would never do -- he wasn't so sure he’d be able to stop weeping. 

After a long pause, he finally said: “I want your help, Eddie.” 

Eddie smiled. “All right, Will. Come.” 

He followed Eddie to his office, down the short hall from Pastor W. L. Head’s door. He waited silently while Eddie fixed some tea, served them both and sat. 

“Will, are you in some sort of trouble?”

He straightened. Eddie, like Brackenreid, possessed good instincts. “No, Eddie,” he said, choosing to bury away the pain encircling his heart. “Nothing...well nothing about me. I...I want to ask you about a case I am working on. An Anglican priest in Hamilton was murdered eleven days ago. One theory of the crime is that he came into knowledge about an illegal alcohol bootlegging ring -- a ring responsible for the deaths of more than forty people -- and was murdered because of that knowledge.”

“Priests are privy to many pieces of information, including secrets, in their normal course of duty. We are not generally known as gossips.” 

He nodded. “In Father Doulton’s case...it was suggested this was even more than sharing gossip. What I am having trouble with is imagining a priest violating the Seal of Confession.” 

Eddie stilled, swallowed his tea, and put the cup down. “Nor can I. The Seal is inviolable. As with Roman Catholics, in the Anglican tradition, he would be deposed and excommunicated for a direct, intentional violation. Indirect revelation of a confession also results in severe punishment. Even with the permission of the penitent, revealing the contents of confession is a delicate matter. A Catholic priest will suffer torture or death before breaking the seal…my Anglican brethren undoubtedly vow the same.” 

He considered how difficult it might be to be a gangster’s priest. “Even if it was about multiple murders?” 

Eddie appeared shocked at the idea, then he sobered. “No, Will. Under the Seal of Confession, not even then.”

He shook his head. “No. I hope I can help save the man’s reputation in that regard, and focus instead in other directions. Thank you for your time.” He stood to leave, satisfied with getting confirmation. A small part of him felt better about the universe. 

In the doorway, Eddie stopped him, his gaze searching. Murdoch tried to offer a bland look, not wishing to be open to Eddie’s penetrating gaze. The two of them had been thick as thieves back in school, often communicating a plan with a mere glance.

“Will, come to confession and Mass. Come back and see me. Soon. We should talk.”

His right hand automatically rose towards his inner jacket pocket where his solicitor’s communication rested, weighing him down. Eddie, his friend, would tell him talking about it might help him decide what to do. Father Cullen, his priest, would try and help save his soul. 

A lost cause...

“I will Eddie, I will,” he lied -- Just one more sin -- knowing he was not hoodwinking his friend or his priest.

“One thing before you go, Will. As much as it pains me, not every priest can be trusted. This is the world we live in now. Not everyone keeps their vows.”

######

1100 hours, Friday Morning June 30th 

10 Terauley Lane

Auguste Tillou’s establishment was situated in a fine Second Empire brick house with stone trim work on the door and windows, topped by a slate mansard roof. It was decidedly more upscale than where Conrad Landswell rented his house-full of good taste. He rang the bell and waited until one side of the carved coffin doors opened. “Detective Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary. I wish to speak with you, please.” The impresario was about Murdoch’s height, silver-haired and bespeckled, his grey eyes giving Murdoch a skeptical once-over before admitting him to his salon.

“Thank you, Mr. Tillou. Your name and your establishment came up during a murder investigation.” He saw the pursed lips on Mr. Tillou and his eyebrows arch. Apparently, the man read the morning papers. “I understand you rent art to patrons, and that you rented an oil painting by Petrus van Schendel to Mrs. Lucinda Ogden, called ‘ The Love Letter ,’ for a period of three months.”

Mr. Tillou looked over the top of his glasses, then smiled. “Ah, yes. We usually do not advertise the names of our patrons, but, yes, Mrs. Ogden is one of mine. She called me, asking me to cooperate with you. Lovely woman with excellent taste.”

For the avant guard or  outré you mean . He coughed. “Can you tell me please how you come by what you rent? Do you own all the works, or are you an agent for the artist?”

Tillou’s face clouded. “Oh, I am not certain it is proper for me to explain the... arrangements I have. My clients rely on my discretion.”

“May I remind you this is a murder investigation, sir?” His head still pounded and he may have spoken more sharply than he intended, but it got results. Mr. Tillou paled, rushed to put a ‘closed’ sign on the door, and motioned him to a private back room. 

“Detective, I facilitate an exchange between the art owner who is either looking to recoup some of his or her investment, hoping to resell on the private market, or is...ahem, bored with the piece, and I connect him or her with an art patron who will appreciate it.”

“In exchange for cash,” he said bluntly, refusing the chair which was offered, not having the time or patience today for politesse. As soon as he was done here, he was off to rattle some of Rocco Perri’s cages --  going home for some sleep be damned. “I require the provenance of ‘ The Love Letter. ’ Now, Mr. Tillou. If you please.” 

######## 

Three o’clock Friday Afternoon-- 

She’d waited in her office in the morgue as long as she could, frustrated at how long it took to get an  un- satisfactory answer from the St. Catharines Receiving Home about Olive Routledge’s children. Ultimately, she only got the name of two orphanages where the children might have gone and stern notice she was interfering in an affair where she had no business. 

Well!  she huffed. I wonder how they will react to Ruby discovering it necessary to do a full muck-raking job on the mercy of their merciless system.  She already had a list of story leads ready to slip to her sister.


	26. Chapter 26

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

**5:20 PM, Friday June 30th**

**Station House No. 4**

Murdoch gratefully reentered the station house to find it empty of constables and his boss on the way out, hat and walking stick in hand. Instead of yelling orders, a satisfied smile bloomed under Brackenreid’s mustache.  __

_ Perfect. I can get work done... _

“Just in time,” Brackenreid caught him. “While you were gone, I did some fishing of my own and now the both of us can go see what I’ve caught. No, no...keep your hat on, we are going for a little ride.”

Murdoch gritted his teeth. He was looking forward to the cool darkness of his office. He glanced over his shoulder to his desk and two blackboards, thinking seriously about declining the invitation. His boss actually winking at him and so full of himself meant Brackenreid believed he was on to something important, so he merely nodded, placed his hat back on his head and turned on his heel, out again into the afternoon sun. 

Crabtree brought a police motorcar to the door. Murdoch asked what the plan was, but Brackenreid just motioned him to the back, taking the front passenger seat and only speaking to give directions.

_ Brackenreid is looking smug. _

Crabtree kept his focus on the road and his own mouth shut, not making eye contact with him in the rear-view mirror. _ Crabtree knows what is up, so it cannot be a secret, therefore Brackenreid is having some fun at my expense.  _ Murdoch was not sure about this arrangement. He rolled the window down for some air. The weather had broken, a high-pressure area and a breeze from the north bringing momentary relief from the heat and humidity, finally clearing out his headache. It didn’t mean he was not exhausted and looking for the day to be over.

“Sir,” he began, whether Brackenreid wanted to know or not, “I have new information on several fronts. I think we can eliminate the idea Father Doulton was going to disclose anything from a parishioner giving confession, and I am having doubts about the Hamilton constabulary’s theory of motive. The painting Miss O’Mara was asking about at Mrs. Ogden’s house had been purchased in London back in 1915. The current owner, who denies it is stolen, of course, is trout-fishing in Scotland. His solicitor gave me the name of the agent who sold it to him--” 

“Crabtree, take the next left.” Brackenreid directed and Crabtree complied. 

Murdoch went on. “...I also made inroads with how Rocco Perri’s organization is likely acquiring alcohol in quantity. Combining what we already learned in the investigation and what Dr. Ogden added--”

“Oh, I see. You have now deputized the new coroner, have you?” Brackenreid’s tone was somewhere between sarcastic and teasing.

“Er...she  _ has _ been helpful, sir.” He found himself defending her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “As soon as we hear back from the men’s inquiries on the streets, I believe I can make a case for exactly how the poisoned alcohol flowed, as it were, into our victim’s hands.” He saw Brackenreid nod once in acknowledgement. He expected...more, feeling confused and irritated with his boss for the moment. 

“Take the next right,” was all the man said as Crabtree lined up behind another vehicle, waiting to make the same turn. 

_ I am tired and hungry and Brackenreid acts like we are on our way to a mystery picnic.  _ “Sir, what are we doing out here, and where exactly are we going?” 

“Stop being a bloody back-seat driver. We’ll get there soon enough. You’re worse than the wife and sons on a Sunday drive in the country. Crabtree, look for a set of stone gates, and turn in there.”

He sank against his seat in defeat. Outside the window, trees were getting thicker, lining the road or dividing up farmer’s fields. His watch told him it was twenty minutes before Crabtree turned in between twin stone pillars, up a gravel drive to a circular apron in front of a Georgian- style house. Brackenreid had the vehicle door open before the vehicle was properly parked. 

“Thank you, Crabtree. You and Murdoch...” he pointed at them both, “watch my six and learn.”

Crabtree gave an eye roll behind Brackenreid’s back. At the door, Brackenreid rang the bell, announcing himself to a butler when the door opened: “Will you please tell Lieutenant Swift that Captain Brackenreid would like a word?”

**** 

Murdoch followed the manservant through a well-appointed entry hall to a beautiful set of leaded-glass doors, which opened into a greenhouse full of plants. A long central aisle in flagstone provided him good views of Mr. Swift’s collection -- ferns, orchids, bromeliads and a selection of North American woodland species -- while he remained eager to exit the hot, humid space for the out of doors. 

Their host, Randolph Swift, was close to Brackenreid’s age, early to mid-forties perhaps, with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes above an aquiline nose and generous lips. The house had appeared well-appointed, old enough to have been a family home, filled with memorabilia and furnishings. Swift, he decided, was old money.

“Thank you for coming out, Captain Brackenreid. Detective Murdoch and Constable Crabtree, is it?” Swift escorted them to chairs on the back terrace of his house. “Please have a seat, gentlemen.”

Crabtree got his notebook out while Brackenreid settled in to admire the lawn. The manservant brought lemonade, then withdrew. Murdoch kept a polite smile, reining in his frustration while continuing to assess their host, who, unlike Brackenreid, did not retain any military aura in civilian life. 

“It’s Inspector Brackenreid now. Murdoch here was my lieutenant, and Constable Crabtree was in our unit. I understand Adam Doulton, Howard Knox and Conrad Landswell served with you.”

Murdoch did a double take, cursing himself for stupidity.  _ I never finished pursuing Landswell’s background after his identity was confirmed. Of all things to drop the ball on!  _

Swift responded. “Y...yes. You can imagine how shocked I was to learn two of them died so--”

“Coincidentally?” He blurted out, getting a harsh look from Brackenreid for his trouble.

“One or two deaths may be a coincidence, Detective, but when I saw Knox’s picture in the papers today, well, that was an unpleasant shock. Especially after receiving this.” Mr. Swift produced a letter which he passed to Brackenreid. “It has to do with an incident...in France.”

Brackenreid scanned the page, his eyes bugging wider as he read. “Good God! Some man named Worcester is accusing Knox of lying under oath in a court-martial!”

“I found it hard to credit, myself.” Swift sat up straighter. “The men in my unit were green, but so were we all. My Captain, God rest his soul, was an exception, of course, but most of us had never been soldiers before, just volunteered for our patriotic duty to King and country. I believed we all served honourably, so I thought the letter did not deserve the dignity of a reply.” 

Murdoch got his brain in gear and found his tongue. “If that is the case Mr. Swift, Mr. Landswell went to great lengths to erase any sign of his war service, as did Howard Knox. Do you know why that was?”

Swift gave him a short angry look, then took another draw on his smoke. “You served, Detective. Not all of us came back with the same  _ joie de vivre _ we left with, or with pleasant memories.” 

Murdoch watched Swift intently. Brackenreid ignored Swift to lean forward over the table, pointing at the letter Swift had produced. 

“Crabtree. Does this name sound familiar? Didn’t you tell me there was some bloke named Worcester who was writing Landswell?” 

Murdoch swiveled to see Crabtree turn page after page in his black notebook until he found what he was looking for. “Sir. A man named Jonathan Worcester made an appointment to see Conrad Landswell. He wrote asking for help with his brother, asking if Landswell remembered him. Two Worcesters, can’t be a coincidence.” 

“Mr. Swift. Can you explain to us what this incident was in France?” Brackenreid interrupted.

Swift appeared to hesitate, as if telling the story was difficult. “It was all in the course of our duty, the harder parts, perhaps.” 

Murdoch held his breath. The worst part of their job had been dealing with cowards, deserters, or men who tried to shirk their duty by faking an injury. The ‘Red Caps’ had often been despised by the common soldiers for their role in military justice -- something else no one ever discussed in polite company. 

Swift took a drink of his lemonade and lit a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame just as if he were back on the line in the trenches. He exhaled a trail of smoke, seemingly lost in thought. 

Brackenreid broke the uncomfortable silence. “And this Worcester?” He waved the letter. “Did he run afoul of you?”

“Our duty, as was yours, included making sure no one stole from the locals. The last case we investigated as a unit was over stolen property. I remember it because it was right before my three-year tour was up. Cpl. Worcester, one of the Princess Patricia Light Infantry, was caught with the goods. Four men in my squad were instrumental in breaking up a theft ring. Worcester was brought up on charges, went to trial, was convicted and sentenced. I have no idea what happened to him afterwards.” 

Murdoch asked for the letter, noting a return address in Toronto no less, his mind whirring.  _ How wrong have I had this whole thing? _

Crabtree was bug-eyed, his pencil frozen over his notepad. 

Brackenreid was clearly dismayed. “Then why is his bloody brother writing to you to ask about Howard Knox?” 

“I have no idea, Inspector. I did not wish to engage with such a distasteful business, especially after so many years. And I did not know how to find Knox, so I had nothing to say. When I saw Knox’s picture in the papers and a request to contact the constabulary with any information, I called and got you. Now you are here with Detective Murdoch.” Swift paused, giving his three guests a meaningful look. “Is Knox dead?” 

“Why do you ask?” Murdoch was instantly suspicious.

“You have a certain reputation, Detective Murdoch.” Swift smiled. “Someone must be dead -- why else would you be here? Did this Worcester fellow find Knox and kill him in some sort of misguided act of revenge?”

*****

**Station House No. 4**

Brackenreid was barking orders the moment he went in over the station house threshold. “Sergeant Weston, call the day shift back in, right away. Leave the evening men on their duties, but when they report in, you tell them we are searching for one man, Jonathan Worcester, last known address 15 Spruce near River street. We’ve already checked -- no one at home right now. Murdoch is going back out with Crabtree to lay in wait. He’ll want you to send reinforcements to close the net on him.” 

Murdoch raced behind, leaving Crabtree to gas up the car and return. Brackenreid kept shouting orders. “And Weston, take out your telegram pad. Murdoch here is going to dictate one to Canadian Expeditionary Force Judge Advocate General.” When Weston remained motionless with his mouth ajar, Brackenreid shouted: “Move it!”

“Sir! The _evidence_ …” Murdoch remained stubbornly insistent, their argument in the car having produced a stalemate. Meanwhile he’d been planning how to actually capture Jonathan Worcester without endangering a house-full of boarders and half the neighborhood. Anyone who killed three people was unlikely to go quietly.

“Murdoch, that's it!” Brackenreid nearly snarled it. “We have three dead soldiers.  _ Three!  _ From the unit in which we both served! Find Worcester’s brother!” Brackenreid repeated. “Get Corporal Worcester’s military file, and get me a list of all the names from that damned squad of Swift’s.  _ Tonight! _ ”

******* 

_ “S.A.R.A. and I are in position, sir.”  _

“Thank you, Crabtree,” Murdoch acknowledged over his new two-way communication devices to which they were giving a trial run. “But not so loud, though,” he hissed. 

_ So much for being undercover.  _ He was hoping no one was looking suspiciously his way because of the cacophony just transmitted on the device. He and Crabtree had a description of their target, so they concentrated the male passersby in the available light, while scanning the street quickly. 

“The volume button is on the right,” he whispered back, “let me know the moment you spot Worcester.” His modification of the Detroit Police Department’s radio receivers gave them four hours of communication before needing to be recharged; if Worcester was returning tonight there was going to be plenty of time. 

He was standing where he could see Spruce Street and Worcester’s front door, while Crabtree had the back door and River Street covered. Both were in civilian clothes, trying to blend in with the neighborhood as night fell. Other officers took posts farther away to make a loose net around their quarry.  __ Getting this wrong worried him.  __ To his left, a shopkeeper closed up his business as workers walked from their factories or the docks to rest for the night in one of the boarding or rooming houses along Spruce. Other people were out for the evening to the local taverns with Friday pay packets to spend. He and Crabtree planned to apprehend Worcester before he entered the rooming house, and failing that, to follow him until more men could capture him, safely. Murdoch made the communication devices small enough to be carried and to work reliably as long as they were not jostled, but he cringed at the idea of trying to run after a fleeing suspect while trying to lug it along.

Spruce dead-ended on River Street. To his back was a large open area leading down to the river, almost directly opposite the Don Jail on the other, eastern, side of the ravine. For a moment he recalled his wonderful evening in Julia’s motorcar as she sped him along the side of the Don River waterway on their way into the countryside. 

He shifted on his feet, impatient with himself for wool-gathering, especially for wool-gathering about a woman and her motorcar.  _ It is the motorcar you are hankering over, right?  _ he asked himself. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled when the two-way communicator made a sizzling sound, the first part of Crabtree’s message lost against background noise.

“Say again!” he whispered.

_ “Coming your way at your three o’clock.” _

He looked to his right, not seeing who Crabtree meant, until under a meagre streetlamp he saw someone completely unexpected. The communicator rasped again, louder than ever, getting the notice of a red-haired woman and her companion. He swore under his breath and yelled: “Police!” In a panic, the red-head and the man with her split apart and just  _ ran  _ in opposite directions.

“You get him, I’ll get her George!” he yelled, then dropped the communication device and chased after the woman. She had a twenty-yard head start and was surprisingly fleet-footed and agile, weaving ahead of him through pedestrians and vehicles. Farm girl indeed, he thought. She was fit and fast from a lifetime of physical labour. She darted between two buildings, losing precious seconds as she slid on some grease while turning the corner, and he followed, gaining ground. He saw her jump for the bottom rung of a fire escape, and she might have made it too, except he managed to get his fingers on the hem of her skirt and haul it downward, pulling her hands off the rung and flinging her backwards into his arms, struggling determinedly.

“Let me go!” she insisted, jabbing into his ribs with her elbows and his shins with her heels.

He clamped down harder on her wriggling form. “Miss O’Mara, I presume.” 


	27. Chapter 27

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

**Nine o’clock Friday**

**City Morgue**

The door closed and locked with such a satisfying clunk. Julia took in a refreshing breath, surprised to see all the lights on so late in the nearby station house. She double-checked her watch -- nine o’clock -- yet No. 4 positively bustled with activity. 

She was hungry, tired and irritated, hoping beyond hope that all the activity across the street didn't mean another unwitnessed death she was going to be hauled over to see about at the invitation of Detective Murdoch. But she already called the Queen’s Hotel front desk -- no mail at all awaited her -- so there was no reason to rush home. 

A huge sigh escaped her.  _ No time like the present.  _ Instead of walking to the adjacent police garage where her car awaited her, she slung her bag over her arm and pushed on through the front doors and down the station house steps, waving to the desk sergeant who was obviously stuck on the telephone. Detective Murdoch's office was well lit, with two wooden microscope storage boxes heaped on his worktable, spilling wires and tubes from their guts instead of magnification instruments.  _ No detective in sight.  _ She looked about, finding the only person not engaged in some deep conversation was Inspector Brackenreid. The man looked like he ached for a drink, whether to celebrate or commiserate she was not sure.

_ I am half tempted to invite him to my lair across the street to share one. _

Deciding that was pushing it, she rapped on his door. “Inspector?” she lifted her morgue Gladstone full of instruments. “What is all the ruckus about? Can I assume my services will be required?”

“Ah, Dr. Ogden! What are you doing here so late?” He motioned her over to his desk, a weary but satisfied smile on him which lifted his ginger mustache. “Take a load off. We are not in need of your services, not this time. Actually, we think we have just caught a couple of murderers. With any luck, Murdoch is going to close out three cases in two jurisdictions, all in one go.” 

A thrilling tingle overcame her.  _ Then these will be my first cases, too _ . “Excellent! Which ones?” She did not bother to hide her excitement.

Brackenreid winked and pointed to a spot behind her. She turned in time to see Detective Murdoch and his constable go past his door. “They are on the way to interview the first suspect. If it is not too late for you, you are welcome to listen in.”

**** 

**Interview room, Station House No. 4**

Lydia O’Mara sat quietly, pulling at the handkerchief in her hands. Murdoch made sure a glass of cool water was by her elbow. He thought she looked awfully young and vulnerable, despite her stiff back and tidy grey dress, probably her Sunday best. It made him sorry for tearing out her hem when they struggled. 

“Miss O’Mara. Please tell us about Corporal Worcester,” he began the interrogation.

“Detective Murdoch, I am not certain you can understand what it is like to be separated from the one you love, not knowing what was happening, wishing so deeply they were with you.” When she spoke, her voice was high and soft but clear, giving Crabtree no problem taking notes from his perch in the corner. 

He nodded encouragement to keep her talking. He knew, intimately, having a war separate you from the person you loved more than anyone else in the world. 

She smiled nervously, looking at him with large, brown eyes. “He wrote...Thadd wrote those little postcards they gave soldiers where the men cross out what they don’t mean to say and leave the rest? Doesn’t give you much, but I knew he was alive when I got one. He...he even sent me some of those silk embroidered ones, with the regimental colours on them.” Miss O’Mara’s tears started flowing; she made no move to stop them. “The whole time he was gone, I looked for something in the post every day. I...I still have them all.” Her voice broke now. 

He sent those same postcards to Liza -- hundreds of them. Soldiers were not allowed to write anything personal on them, so the ones he sent home could only say: _I am quite well._ _I have received your letter. Wm. Murdoch;_ and the date. No salutation. No, _‘Dear Liza._ ’ No _‘love, William’_ was permitted. 

Miss O’Mara took in a shuddering lungful. “I tried to keep my spirits up, you see. I prayed each night for his safety and that of his fellow soldiers. I went to work. Do my part, you understand? After a while, I just...I just…” She stopped, took another gulp of air to calm herself. She lifted her chin, her eyes misting, trying to make herself be brave. “Being apart was so terribly hard on me while I waited here and he was over there. I loved Thaddeus. He was a sweet lad, and kind. The whole time he was gone...it was as if I was trapped underwater, holding my breath. Have you any idea what that is like?” 

He nodded again, feeling uncomfortable and prickly all over. She opened a window into his own life. He exhaled, shifting a few papers on the table in front of him. 

“I always knew I could lose him when he went to war; he said he did not wish to marry me before he left, said he wasn’t going to leave me a widow. I...I could have accepted it. I never thought...” She uttered a sob which she stifled with her fist. He waited patiently, himself exhaling slowly to make sure he did not lose his own control. She took a sip of water and proceeded. “There were just no more postcards. For weeks. Nothing! I didn’t know what to make of it. I wrote to his brother, Jonathan, asking for news. We heard nothing. I...I thought he must be dead. Then Jonathan told me the military informed him Thadd had been convicted of crimes and was serving his punishment. I...I just could not believe it!” Her eyes flashed angrily, despite the tears. “How could the man I loved change so much?”

He gestured to her hands so she could dab her eyes. “Miss O’Mara, how did you connect a painting you saw here in Toronto to Thadd’s criminal case?” She was silent for so long, he began to think she was going to refuse to speak further. He waited with the silence until she shifted, then prompted her gently. “I am sure this is difficult for you. Please, tell me what happened.” 

She gave him a haunted look. “Detective, Thadd always said he didn’t do it. He told his legal representative that. He told the court that. He told us that. He sent all the trial transcripts to his brother, asking for us to get a new trial for him. We never could. The neighbors turned against the family; the shame of what his son had done took his father to an early grave. Thadd bore his punishment and was released after a year, but...but he was never the same. He was so...so angry, and he...he drank, gave up hope, locked himself away.” She looked at him, searching for compassion, her cheeks flaring red in embarrassment, her eyes filling. 

“By the time he came home, I wasn’t the same either, Detective. And, to my shame, I didn’t believe him anymore.” She sagged towards the table. “Then I saw that...that  _ damned  _ picture.” She whispered the invective. “In the court records, he was accused of stealing that particular painting and then destroying it when he got caught. That was supposedly proof of his guilt -- the remains of that painting in his possession.  _ The Love Letter _ . How ironic! So, what was it doing on a wall more than six thousand miles away? If one part was wrong -- maybe the whole thing was wrong. Thadd might be beyond caring, but I had to know! For his mother’s burden if nothing else. From the trial records, we had the names of the men who arrested Thadd and gave evidence at his court-martial. We just needed to know if there had been a mistake...we had to clear Thadd’s name. We started by contacting the Military Police captain, but learned he was dead.” 

“Which is when Jonathan Worcester put advertisements in the papers asking for information about the other men,” he guessed.

“Yes!” She leaned forward. “We thought it was worth the chance, so we put in advertisements in all the major Ontario papers. Mr. Randolph Swift was their lieutenant, so we thought he might know something. He was easy to find in the Toronto City Directory. Johnathan wrote to him, but he never responded. Mr. Conrad Landswell was easy to find as well, also in the City Directory. We wrote to him asking for an appointment. I even called him on the telephone at his office. At first he agreed to help us…” She looked down, “Or I thought he was going to. I even went and begged him in person, but he refused. Then we read in the papers he was dead.” She turned her eyes back up to him, pleading.

He ignored her unspoken quest for his understanding -- or was it for him to agree with her motives? “And Father Doulton? Did you find him in Hamilton?”

She brightened. “He found  _ us  _ \-- responded to the advertisement right away. Says he is going to think about what he can do.”

He noticed she was using the present tense.  _ Does she not know Doulton is dead? It was not in the Toronto papers, so maybe…  _ He wasn’t willing to reveal anything to his suspect, not yet.

“And Howard Knox? I understand you hold him particularly responsible for what happened to your fiancé.” 

“We never found him, Detective.” 

“Yet you were preparing to skip town when you saw his name in the papers. You ran from the police,” he pointed out.

She sucked in air between her teeth. “That was my fault. I became skittish, frightened, after learning about Mr. Landswell died then seeing Mr. Knox’s name in the papers...”

He thought hard about using her guilt feelings to trip her up into either lying or giving away information. Instead, he slid a calendar and a blank piece of paper and a pencil over the table in her direction. “Miss O’Mara, please make an accounting of your actions and your whereabouts from the time you and Mr. Worcester placed your advertisements in the papers until today. Give it to Constable Crabtree when you are finished.”

She reached out to grab his sleeve. “We need their help, Detective. To right a terrible wrong that has caused so much pain and shame and now two are dead and one won’t help... It’s an old family, the Worcesters. A proud family that’s been torn apart, where there is nothing left but grief. We need them to clear Thadd’s name, if only for his poor mother’s sake.” 

He knew if  _ she _ was not directly involved with the murders of Knox, Landswell and Doulton, it did not rule out Worcester’s brother from using her for his own ends to exact revenge. He found himself not wanting to believe her story, and the tragedy it told, yet she looked so pitiable, he decided to try a gambit to win her trust, hoping to wring more of the truth from her. “Miss O’Mara, assuming what you say about Corporal Worcester’s case can be proven, no promises, of course, we might be able to get Thadd Worcester a new trial.”

Instead of pleased, she looked even more stricken. “Didn’t Jonathan tell you? Poor Thadd hanged himself about a month after we buried his father.” 

**** 

_ Holding one’s breath, trapped under water _ . 

He thought she described it exactly.  _ Holding your breath knowing you can’t keep on doing it forever, but also knowing taking in that next breath was going to end you all the same. _ It was what he’d been doing since Liza left.

Outside in the hall, Brackenreid waited. Somehow, Dr. Ogden also witnessed his interrogation. He addressed his boss first: “You heard her, sir. Her  fiancé , Thaddeus Worcester, is dead by his own hand. Do we believe Miss O’Mara had anything, directly or indirectly, to do with Knox, Doulton or Landswell’s deaths?”

“They ran when they saw you, Murdoch. That's a guilty mind. Revenge is a bloody good motive if Cpl. Worcester was unfairly convicted and then offed himself because he couldn't live with the dishonour...Even if Worcester  _ was _ railroaded. A big ‘if’.” Brackenreid had his arms crossed over his chest, looking bullish. 

“It might not matter if he was, inspector, only if the family believes it to be true,” Dr. Ogden added. 

He looked at her, annoyed she was interjecting even if he agreed with her.

Brackenreid shook his head. “I think it was a good idea to separate Miss O’Mara from Worcester and question her first. Soon as we get that page from her, interview Jonathan Worcester and see if you can get him to stumble on something.”

He considered, and rejected it quickly. “No, sir. No weapon, no knife was found on their persons or in their rooms. No alcohol, no poison either. We can hold them forty-eight hours without charging them, so I say we leave them both in custody; Worcester here, and send Miss O’Mara to Mercer Reformatory overnight. I think we get constables to corroborate Miss O’Mara’s timeline first. Check pawns shops for one of them purchasing a German trench knife; ask Worcester’s mother if her son brought one home as a souvenir. I will talk with Jonathan Worcester only  _ after _ I already know the correct answers. I am hoping for a full, unambiguous confession and to do that I must have every bit of evidence lined up before I see to Mr. Worcester.” He held up a hand to stem the objection he knew was coming. “Sir. You reminded me to be absolutely sure we are right before making an arrest. If we are to charge this pair with a triple murder, or decide Miss O’Mara was an accomplice, wittingly or not, and go to trial, it will expose the military to scandal in the process --  _ our _ military unit, sir -- whether they eventually get convicted or not.” 

“Good God, the bloody press!” Brackenreid gave a sideways glance at Dr. Ogden, who immediately reacted, putting her hands on her hips, in a mannerism with which Murdoch was already becoming familiar. Her chin rose in a challenge directly at him... 

“Gentlemen,” she said in a serious voice. “Are you sure you will get this confession of yours? No one who is planning murder is going to publicly solicit their victims and leave a mile-wide trail, are they?”

Brackenreid snorted loudly. “You will find, Doctor, that plenty of daft buggers can do the deed and forget entirely about the getting away with it.” 

Dr. Ogden had the good sense not to argue her point. Murdoch bade his boss good night and escorted her out as quickly as possible before Brackenreid started to pontificate or spin yarns about criminals-past. “Doctor, it is late. Perhaps…”

“Perhaps, what, Detective Murdoch?” she said as she leaned in towards him. “Are you going to offer to accompany me home? As my protector?”

He stopped dead, uncertain for a minute if she was serious or not. The wink helped him figure it out. “Uh...no, Doctor. Sorry. I...um…” Why does she flummox me so? he complained to himself.

She straightened her sleeves and bent to pick up her medical bag. “Congratulations, then, on your murder cases, Detective. You and the inspector appear satisfied you will wrap it up tomorrow. Perhaps we can celebrate afterwards?” She smiled even wider at him. “A drink?”

He started to object, although he wasn’t quite sure why. 

“Of lemonade, then? Coffee? Oh, come on. If not to celebrate the case, then the holiday. Or, you can explain to me what testifying for your cases might entail. Something must be enough to tempt you?”

She swept out before he could find an answer. 

*****

Julia tended to love it when she left them speechless. She was feeling  _ so _ smug she nearly bowled Constable Crabtree over with her bag as it swung on the end of her arm. 

“My goodness, doctor!” he said as he righted himself.

“I do apologize, constable. I got carried away. We are all in a good mood when you solve a case.” She beamed at him. “Say, Constable Crabtree...I have a question about Detective Murdoch…”


	28. Chapter 28

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

**0500 hours Dominion Day, Saturday July 1st**

**222 Ontario Street**

“Thank you, Mrs. Kitchen. You did not have to get up this early with me.” Murdoch took a bite of fresh, warm bread, smothered in apricot jam. The two of them had shared this table now for more than a decade, ever since he’d taken his first job with the constabulary, through his ups and downs, his promotions, his courtship of Liza and marriage, her husband’s illness and death. He’d had Mrs. Kitchen in his life longer than he’d had his own mother; he treated her with respect, as someone to protect. She returned the respect and treated him maternally.

Her voice was firm. “No trouble at all, Mr. Murdoch. You know how I am always up early because I look forward to this holiday all year. Better than Christmas it is, because there is no snow! Even rain is better than that,” she laughed. “All the boarders know to shift for themselves in the larder today, because everyone but you have the day off!” This time she gave him a concerned look, apparently not liking what she saw. Now he guessed the reason she’d gotten up so early with him was for the privacy it afforded. “Are you all right? I worry sometimes…” 

He used a sip of coffee to hide his reaction. It could not have escaped her eagle eye that he no longer wore his wedding ring. Mrs. Kitchen, a devout Catholic, had given up her prayer campaign to repair his marriage months ago.  _ Before I did, _ he scolded himself. She was naturally nervous and worried about the peril to his soul, and more practically, worried about the house. Lying to her would be unworthy, useless and unkind.

“Mrs. Kitchen...Beatrice...I will be blunt. I am sure it is no surprise, after all this time...Liza is not coming back. She has asked me to divorce her.” Mrs. Kitchen gasped, immediately dabbing her eyes. “Unless she files first. Please do not worry. It will not be ugly, and it will not affect the house. Our home.” He reached over to pat a blue-veined hand. 

She looked stricken. “That big envelope. I am so sorry, Mr. Murdoch. But a _ divorce _ …” Her other hand made the sign of the cross. “Have you talked with Father Cullen?” 

“I will, I promise,” he lied to her, despite promising himself mere seconds ago that his honour could not bear it.  _ This is getting to be a habit, lying to people who care about me. _ “Right now, I have to go. Don’t expect me. If the weather cooperates, have fun today at the fair and tonight at the fireworks.”

She still looked so shocked. “Maybe things happen for a reason.”

He shook his head at her. He was the last person who believed in fatalism. No, he believed in choices.

“Can you ask for an annulment?” she asked as he stood up. 

Her suggestion shocked him -- Mrs. Kitchen was more Catholic than the Pope. Shaking his head, he tried to lighten the mood, laugh her off. “Someday. For now…” he trailed off, looking at the floor. Before turning around and heading out.

“You deserve happiness,” she called out after him.

_ Happiness? _ He found it so hard to remember what that was.

“You do,” she insisted.

William kept on walking. Thing is, considering the mess he’d been making of his life, and now with his work, he wasn’t so sure he deserved any of it.

***** 

**5 am -- Dominion Day, Saturday July 1st**

**Toronto**

Julia quietly left her rooms while it was still dark out, dressed in her most expensive business suit and hat, trying not to make too much of a commotion while juggling two bags and a basket of food past an impassive front desk clerk and on to her motorcar. She got everything packed in the back seat, for the umpteenth time regretted not having a coffee, removed her hat, and nosed her vehicle out of the garage to navigate south along the shore on the relatively new concrete highway stretching from Toronto to Hamilton. Once past the city limits, she pushed her engine a bit, letting the 16/40 open up, waiting for the sun to rise outside her driver’s window before putting on more speed. At this hour, almost no one was on the road. Driving was an exhilarating substitute for the lack of caffeine, and certainly better than fretting over Olive Routledge’s children until Monday when she still would not be able to do a damned thing about it. 

On the seat next to her under her cloche was a clipboard with a map and directions to two orphanages in St. Catharines and the names of the children she was seeking. If she drove straight through, she should get to the first orphanage by eight or eight thirty. She also had the name of the neighbor who cared for Olive’s children and an invitation to meet. That gave her five hours, give or take, to search the orphanages and interview the matrons and -- with any luck -- see the two little girls, Autumn age three, and Catherine an infant. Julia was doubtful she herself had a maternal bone in her body, but woe to anyone who got between her and those girls. 

__

######## 

**0600 hours**

**Station House No. 4**

The broken communication devices sat forlornly on his worktable. He’d been correct; their delicate tuning and instrumentation were not up to surviving much abuse. But did Crabtree have to  _ throw  _ his at Jonathan Worcester as a way to bring a fleeing suspect down? 

He told himself there was no point remaining irritated. 

Despite the early hour, Crabtree greeted him with a cup of coffee as soon as he walked into work. “Good morning! Wasn’t that something last night?” he said with a huge grin. “I...I was so excited I...I could not sleep!”

“Coffee?” Murdoch offered as explanation for the insomnia. 

“Why y...yes. Dr. Ogden gave me some of hers,” Crabtree said, raising his cup and completely missing the point. “I..I have been thinking about Corporal Worcester’s case you and I both know what it was like during the war and occupation...so...so much chaos so many opportunities...do you think it is possible Cpl. Worcester was railroaded?” 

Crabtree was talking so fast, Murdoch guessed this was not his first cup of the day. “I hate to think so. I cannot imagine such a travesty happening under Brackenreid’s command. However, all it takes is for Miss O’Mara and Mr. Worcester’s brother to  believe Cpl. Worcester was unjustly accused and convicted to feel enough rage for a motive for revenge.”

“Well, sir. Beliefs, feelings are fickle things, aren't they? One day you believe, then the next day -- somehow you don't.” 

_ Oh, you have no idea. _ “You take point on this case while Hodge works on the Rocco Perri angle with me. Your priority is tracking down Miss O’Mara’s whereabouts -- especially when and where she says she was with Jonathan Worcester -- giving them both alibis. Start with the date of Father Doulton’s death. Then move on to connections with Knox and Landswell.” He gestured to his second chalkboard with his new Venn diagram. 

Crabtree nodded, making a note. “Yes. The harder one will be Mr. Landswell; and as for Mr. Knox -- well, we know even less about exactly when and where he got ahold of the poisoned cognac.”

“Agreed, which is why I want you to send two men back out to find anyone on our short list of strychnine purveyors who recognizes either of them. You took Jonathan Worcester and Lydia O’Mara’s photographs last night as I asked?” he asked.

The constable’s eyes lit up. “Ah...brilliant, sir. Yes, I have them drying in your darkroom as we speak.” 

_ You  _ were  _ up early. _ “Excellent, Crabtree. I want copies of every victim and suspect please, for my office. We only looked for Miss O’Mara in the vicinity of Landswell’s office. Miss O'Mara swears it was only she who visited Landswell, despite there being a letter from Jonathan Worcester asking for an appointment. Now we have a new image to show around, of Jonathan Worcester. Find out if he was ever there. Send four men to do a thorough job this morning, before the shops close early for the holiday -- might turn something new up. If she and Worcester committed these murders together, I need evidence. If Worcester duped her, used her, I need to know that as well. Make enough photographic prints we can send them to Detective Travers in Hamilton and have Higgins take them around to the Crown Club as well. Might as well cover all our bases. Please see each day in Miss O’Mara’s timeline is thoroughly covered by one of the men -- down to the letter -- with written, signed statements if possible. If there are holes in their alibis, if they are guilty, we must have proof before I question Jonathan Worcester, understood?” 

“Understood. What will you be on to today, sir?” 

He stood, satisfied Crabtree was more than capable of carrying out orders. “While your men either corroborate or poke holes into Miss O’Mara’s story, Hodge and I are going to follow up on the illegal distribution of alcohol. On a holiday like this, you can imagine there will be a demand, and deliveries are happening as we speak.” He grabbed his hat and Mackintosh, left a detailed message for Hodge with the desk and began his day. 

########

**Dominion Day, Saturday July 1st**

**Protestant Orphan’s Home, Ontario Street, St. Catharines**

Julia was confident this was going to work.  _ It is not just Ruby and Detective Murdoch who can get what they want from an interview. _

Unfortunately, at the moment, she had to convince the obstinate woman in front of her of that. Miss Ostrow, the orphanage administrator, reminded her of her calculus teacher: barely five feet tall, including the grey top-knot bun -- and just as unmoved by pleas for mercy and understanding.

“Miss Ogden--”

“It’s Doctor Ogden, and I am not leaving here without getting this resolved.”

“ _ Doctor _ Ogden, these children are young enough that they will have no memory of their mother and I am doubtful if they ever knew either of their fathers. No man has come forward to claim them, of course. Miss Routledge had no ties to the community; no family has inquired. I rather think it doubtful her family will be willing to claim children born out of wedlock, especially children of an unstable mother at that. There is nothing to resolve.” Miss Ostrow folded her hand in front of her, assuming that settled the matter.

“So, these children are to be wards of your orphanage? That’s it?” She tried not to sound shrill. 

“Would you have them grow up, illegitimate, under the shadow of a mother who abandoned them in the cruelest and most selfish manner? Here, they will be cared for, taught good Christian values -- something their mother obviously neglected --” the woman sniffed, “learn a trade and be sent out in the world, when the time comes, to be a productive member of society.” 

“No adoption?” She was incensed about that. She had to ask even when she knew the answer. 

“No. You must realize, even if we offered an adoption, not many upstanding couples will take the child of an unstable woman for fear it will turn out the same.”

It took several more minutes before Miss Ostrow relented -- only so far as to allow Julia to visit the creche, where she found two healthy-looking children, one in a wooden-slat crib, and the infant in a smaller crib-cradle. There were ten such cribs in the room, tended by one young woman in a grey dress and white pinafore. The room was oddly quiet. She wondered if the children were drugged to make them more compliant. 

“Autumn?” she asked, and the toddler smiled up at her. “Is that your sister?” she pointed to the infant in the next crib. Autumn nodded and began a cheerful chatter until she was shushed by the young child-minder. Autumn started to tear up, giving the minder a fearful and angry look. Julia bent down to listen to the child. 

“When is momma come?” Autumn asked, turning the edges of her dress in chubby hands.

She patted the child on her light brown curls. “My name is Julia. I will find your family, if it is the last thing I do.” From her bag, she brought out the first toy, a plush bunny Olive’s neighbor gave her, and handed it to Autumn. The hand crochet little manikin, perfect for a small child’s teething mouth, she gave to Catherine. They toys were left behind when the children were taken from the neighbor’s home -- both girls immediately lit up as if these scraps of cloth were treasures. 

Her heart nearly broke when she had to turn her back and leave those little girls behind. On the drive back to Toronto, Julia saw the thunderclouds coming straight for her, challenging her to get home before it poured. She settled her hands on the wheel, pressed the accelerator and told the storm not to bet against her, not today.


	29. Chapter 29

**CHAPTER TWENTY- NINE**

**1500 hours Saturday July 1**

**Toronto Street**

Murdoch raced down a Toronto street on foot, his teeth jarring and snapping with each step. The difference this time was he was the pursue-ee and not the pursuer, an exceedingly rare occurrence, and he did not like it much. A sudden downpour made it tough going, more so for Hodge who laboured a few steps behind him, considering the extra years and stomach under the man’s belt. He slowed, making a quick left onto the main drag, Hodge’s chest heaving at his side. Desperate for an escape, Murdoch spied an open tea shoppe whose awning sheltered a collection of people hoping to avoid getting soaked. He pointed at the spot. “Hodge, in there!”

He pivoted right, finding a seam between two businessmen and pushed through, making a larger space for Hodge to follow. They got sworn at for rudeness, then the press of people closed in behind them while the rain came down even harder, obscuring two more men in dark hats and raincoats amongst the rest, as the men who chased them ran on by.

“Sir…” Hodge gasped.

“This way,” he crooked a finger at Hodge, shouldering to the back of the store just as a crack of thunder shook the windows. “Two coffees please. One black, one with cream and two sugars.”

Hodge found a table and two chairs, settling in with a smile after shaking his hat off. “Much obliged.”

Murdoch fussed for a second with the sorry state of his own homburg, then shrugged, placing it on his lap. Hodge, he noticed, was positively gleeful at having outrun the hooligans who had started the chase. Both of them were dripping wet despite raincoats. “What did you think, Hodge? That was the last distribution point on our short list, all with small, regular supplies of illegal alcohol. Statistically, in order to have a result with mathematical certainty, I must know the absolute number of distribution points and then select a random sample--”

“Oh...here’s our coffee.” Hodge interrupted, taking the ‘blonde and sweet’ one for himself. “Sir, the inspector...well you know how he gets. He will be uninterested in your mathematical proofs, begging your pardon. We visited one of Rocco Perri’s wholesale blind pigs in each of our nine precincts and found exactly the same thing in each place and the same name for each bad batch of bootleg liquor: John Salt. We only got our tails chased this last time because I arrested that barkeep so many occassions, we are on a first name basis!” He sipped his coffee with pleasure. “They get their liquor in growlers or gallons or small barrels and pour out what the customer orders. No questions asked. No matter how many we go to, it will be the same. You have your answer.”

He reluctantly agreed. Running from the last place had gotten his blood pumping which the coffee was going to keep going strong. He blew on the cup and tasted it, relaxing into the chair. “I expect we will have even more answers when we get back to the station house. I have a good feeling about this today, Hodge.” He shot a glance at the rain outside, disappearing as quickly as it arrived, blue skies already forming. “Finish your coffee and let’s go find the motorcar. You may even be done in time for some Dominion Day festivities!” 

*****

John Hodge remained in a jocular mood the whole way back to the station house, and Murdoch rode along quietly, absorbed in thought, trying to decide how to make his two-way communication device lighter -- and sturdier. Once at the office, Inspector Brackenreid gave him a high-sign from his desk, indicating he was on the telephone. He didn’t even see Crabtree until he looked up from his mail. “Back so soon?”

“Sir! Let’s just say between the weather and the holiday, there was some extra motivation amongst the lads. Worseley is the only one who has not reported in and already gone home,” Crabtree said. “And speak of the devil, there he is now.”

Murdoch turned to see the red-haired constable come in, an excited look about him. “Excellent. When Hodge comes back in, bring him, your results, and Worseley into my office.”

Crabtree rushed about, blocking his way. “Sir. Dr. Ogden is waiting for you.” He swept his eyes to the right as if silent communication was necessary. 

He was immediately on alert. “Thank you. The inspector is impatient for his holiday. I’ll see what Dr. Ogden requires and then take your report.”

_ I’d forgotten all about her invitation to celebrate.  _ He straightened his shoulders and walked a few paces to his office, seeing her sitting on one of his workbench stools, disturbing the carefully arranged layout of the tabletop. “Doctor…”

“Ah, Detective. What is this? It looks a little like one of the field wireless systems I saw in France--of course, it did not exactly look like...um...this.” She pointed to the device Crabtree had pitched before tackling Jonathan Worcester. 

“I call it a Dual Voice Sender and Receiver Apparatus. The Detroit Police Department is experimenting with radios in their police vehicles…” He tried hard not to physically remove her hand from fiddling with the wires. “I have made some modifications.”

She kept admiring it from all angles. “Well, that's a mouthful to say. Your device is much more portable than anything so heavy a vehicle’s got to carry it. What do you call it?” 

He blinked. “Dual Voice Sender and Receiver Apparatus,” he repeated. When she did not appear to understand he tried again. “My constable proposed an acronym, calling it S.A.R.A., which sounds out of place for a police operation.” 

“A woman’s name is out of place?” She tilted her head. “You can walk and talk while using it? I can see the utility. Constable Crabtree says he imagines a time when it is possible to always have a wireless handheld radio or telephone devices with them. Sounds horrid. How would anyone get any peace and quiet?”” 

He had no answer for that as well as seeing nothing wrong about the descriptive name he chose for the patent application he was completing. “Doctor, may I help you?” He wanted to get off his feet because, although his raincoat saved his jacket from the deluge, nothing prevented his trousers and shoes from becoming soggy. He squeaked when he walked. He motioned her to one of his chairs so he could sit at his desk and get her away from his things.

She agreed, slinging herself down. “I have been doing some of my own investigation...oh, don’t fret. Not one of your cases. You remember the woman who suicided? Jumped off the roof?”

“Yes,” he said warily. There was enough on his plate without stepping on another detective’s toes. 

“I found her children myself in a St. Catharines orphanage today. It was appalling!” she said. He was transfixed by how her face and eyes burned with emotion. “The caretakers there are uninterested in finding the children's father or locating any grandparents. Do you know, most of them never try to get adoptive homes for the children? They rent them out, like indentured servants -- no wonder there is no effort made to reunite the children with blood relatives. And, because it is a suicide, Detective Pearce has closed his investigation! I was hoping you could help me get her two children away from that awful place by finding family for them to go to.”

He was torn. He saw her expression fall when he hesitated, aware of that cross-tug again. His fingers went to the rotary card holder he concocted which sat on his desk, spun it until he got to _“P”_. “This is the name of a private investigator with excellent skills and credentials, more than capable for what you seek.” 

“Thank you, Detective. If this works, one more thing to celebrate.” She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, stretching her fingers out for the information.

He copied it down and handed it over, happy to have satisfied her without entangling himself, just as Crabtree, Hodge, and Worseley presented themselves at his door, rescuing him from anything further with the doctor or making plans with her. He waved them in, expecting Dr. Ogden to depart.

Instead, she surprised him. “I’d like to remain, if it is all the same to you, Detective.” 

He gave her a hard stare, which she ignored _. She does keep inviting herself along.  _

Try as he might, he had no polite reason to exclude her, and she had been useful in the investigation. “Hodge and I have good news from our work today. I will interview Jonathan Worcester with what you discovered. What have you George?” He asked, ready with his chalk board to collect the data.

Crabtree nervously gulped some air. “Sir, you’d better start with your telegram from Hamilton.”

“Reading my mail?” he chided. He found the page and opened it.

Crabtree slumped. “I was here when Sergeant Weston took it. Thought you’d better see it first instead of the boss.”

Murdoch read the  communiqué. Line by line his good mood evaporated, replaced by desperation. “What about the rest of the timeline? Miss O’Mara’s alibis?” Crabtree collected all the paperwork and handed over several reports and witness statements, which Murdoch scanned in frustration. He was speechless for a while, aware his men were waiting for a response, not to mention Dr. Ogden. “There it is. Our entire case up-ended.”

“Er...a...again.” Crabtree coughed. “Sir...who is going to tell the inspector?” 

“Maybe it will be better after a good night’s sleep, sir? You know, better perspective and all that,” Hodge said as he and Worseley edged out of the room.

He held in a sigh. No one ever volunteered up to tell Brackenreid bad news. “Go on gentlemen. Have your day out. I have this.” He gathered up the men’s reports, formulating the best way to deliver the results. 

“I’ll go with you, sir. Just like old times,” Crabtree offered.

He almost refused the company, debating with himself only briefly. 

“Sir?” He called over to the inspector in his office. “May we have you over here for our report?” 

Brackenreid came to the doorway, puffing a cigar, his face twisted into a bulldog expression. “Can we charge Worcester and Miss O’Mara or not? What? You think I don’t know something’s wrong when the two of you look like that?” Brackenreid’s mood was tense, gesturing to the blackboards filled with names, charts and pictures. “I’ve promised Mrs. Brackenreid and me’ boys a good look at the fireworks tonight, so hurry it up.”

Murdoch appreciated Crabtree’s look of support. He swallowed and started his recitation. 

“Detective Travers positively identified Howard Knox coming away from St. Mark’s where Father Doulton was killed and has a witness putting Knox on the train in Hamilton coming back to Toronto. It’s a decent walk from St. Marks to the Hamilton station; after stabbing the priest, he’d get there in plenty of time to catch the train, exactly when and where the witness says he saw him.” Murdoch handed over the telegram.

“So, we are back to Mr. Knox killing Father Doulton? Why?” Dr. Ogden asked a fair question. 

He had forgotten she was there. “I am not certain of the motive, but yes. He did,” he said. “You were right, Doctor, when you identified Mr. Landswell and Mr. Knox as being separate cases from the poisoned alcohol deaths. We should never have lost sight of that.”

“Christ!” Brackenreid slammed his cigar out on the desk, so distressed he did not bother to apologize to the lady present. “No holes in this bloody time-line of yours?”

“Sir,” he winced inside, placing six sheets on his desk for the boss to see. “The men have followed up on each day Miss O’Mara laid out for us. We have sufficient witness statements; even without an hour-by-hour accounting,  _ her _ alibi is solid.”

“And Worcester?” 

“Mr. Worcester’s photograph drew a blank in the neighborhood of Landswell’s business. Neither of their photographs were recognized at the chemical supply venues.” 

“I have the witness statements Detective Murdoch asked me to get,” Crabtree broke in. “We found no evidence of means or opportunity for them to have poisoned Landswell or Knox. On the day Father Doulton was stabbed, June 19th, both Miss O’Mara and Mr. Worcester were exactly where they said they were, here in Toronto at James, James, Jarvis and James solicitors. I spoke directly to Mr. Jarvis and have a signed affidavit.” 

Brackenreid grumbled harder. “Doesn’t mean they did not have it done.” 

“And, as you have heard, we have good reason to believe Howard Knox killed Adam Doulton.”

She looked from one of them to the next. “Over poisoned bootlegged alcohol?” 

He thought about it -- somehow it just didn’t fit. “No.” 

“So, Knox did the priest in, and it is not connected to Cpl. Worcester and you don’t think it is connected to Perri?” Brackenreid made it sound as if the theory was absurd. “What the blue blazes is going on here?” 

All that police work to arrive back at the beginning was enough to give his boss apoplexy. “Separate cases, sir. Unrelated, as the evidence we have from Dr. Ogden shows.”

“Then nothing about Father Doulton leads back to Rocco Perri? What about the Hamilton Constabulary’s theory?”

“Sir. It's not all bad news today. Between what Hodge dug up and the rest I have uncovered, I believe Rocco Perri’s operation is not a single big enterprise like Detective Travers speculated. Instead, I believe it is several, more moderate-sized, compartmentalized operations, so that batches of alcohol are prepared, in series, allowing for there to be continuous brewing from different locations, providing a steady supply of product, but in a way which is easier to disguise -- or abandon. It makes it more difficult to track down a single source---”

“Ah...because there is none!” Crabtree said excitedly. “That’s brilliant!” 

“And it explains why there was only a single bad batch,” Dr. Ogden exclaimed. “A tragic accident.”

“Just so,” he agreed.

“One which killed a lot of people.” Brackenreid still hesitated. “What happened to the entire Royal Distillery, then?”

He had been working that out for the last few days. “It is not just alcohol from Canada which is in demand in the States. The United States War office is stockpiling strategic materials -- including metals. There has been a steady stream of thefts from construction sites, copper piping mostly, aluminum and brass. I think the whole Royal operation was taken apart piece by piece and quietly, discreetly scrapped, then sold across the border in Buffalo or Niagara Falls. Much more doable than moving any of the huge copper vats, intact -- and more lucrative.” 

Brackenreid fell silent. Crabtree and Dr. Ogden both looked nervous.

“As for the murders of Knox, Landswell and Doulton, I think we can release Miss O’Mara and Cpl. Worcester’s brother,” he suggested. “Constable Crabtree get Mr. Worcester to give you all the court-martial records he gathered on his brother’s case. Look closely for another motive connected to that squad that might have caused enemies.”

“Bloody Hell,” Brackenreid finally said, looking spent. He roused himself to go to his own office. “Crabtree, see to it, will you? Let Mr. Swift know we no longer think Worcester is a danger to him -- might make him feel better.” Brackenreid didn't wait for acknowledgement, leading the way back to his own office.. “Come on, Murdoch, let's figure out the rest in my office. You too, doctor. Have a seat,” he offered once he got behind his desk. Dr. Ogden took the chair. 

“Do you think you have this mess sorted out, finally?” Brackenreid asked wearily, “because I don’t think I can stand another reversal.”

Murdoch took the settee. His odd, _ something is off _ , sensation was not pressing on him as it had been. “Sir, we were conflating the cases before, which blunted our investigation, especially into Rocco Perri. Now, having two clearly demarcated sets of murders, one for poisoned liquor with Rocco Perri as our primary target and one for poisoning two ex-army men with strychnine, which means we must find a new suspect with the means, opportunity, and a strong motive.” 

“But what motive did Mr. Knox have to kill Father Doulton? Then who killed Mr. Knox and Mr. Landswell?” Dr. Ogden objected. “If not rage or revenge -- then, what, fear?”

He agreed. “Humans have been rationalizing their choices for millennia by claiming they were forced to do so, often citing fear. As for Rocco Perri -- the motive is unmistakable avarice.”

“But who kills their customers? That is not much of a business plan.” She made it a joke. 

Brackenreid grunted. “Speaking of Rocco Perri, I should warn both of you we have probably stirred the pot by asking after the source of Perri’s liquor. It had to be done, of course. But the closer you get, the more dangerous this will be. Be careful.” Brackenreid leveled his gaze at Dr. Ogden.

“Why me, Inspector? I have not been making any... _ direct _ inquiries.” She sounded genuinely puzzled. 

Murdoch thought it was naïve of her, but it  _ was  _ only the end of her second week with the city.  _ Good Lord! Only two weeks?  _ He was momentarily amazed. __

Brackenreid stood, his words blunt: “By now Rocco Perri knows you are the new Toronto City Coroner. You have to testify to your findings at trial, Doctor. They are no good without you. Dismissed.” 

****** 

Julia shot to her feet to meet the Inspector’s gaze, not wishing to be towered over.  _ Who did he think he was, her  _ _ father _ _?  _

“Inspector…” she started hotly, then felt a hand on her elbow -- a hand attached to the rest of Detective Murdoch. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said rapidly, deftly turning her towards the office exit. “Dr. Ogden and I appreciate your concern. We’ll let you get home to your family.” 

She was so caught off guard she let him lead her several steps before twisting out of his grasp. “Now see here,” she whispered. “Neither of you has the right to treat me like a child who must avoid the deep end of the pool!”

He dropped both of his hands, not looking apologetic in the least. “Doctor, he warned me as well. It is what you do when you are part of a team; watch each others’ back.” 

Still no apology. _ He must be sincere, but why cut me off?  _ She bristled. “I do not appreciate being silenced, Detective Murdoch. If I choose to speak my mind, that is my business.”

Instead of responding, he gestured for them to enter his office. She kept her chin up and marched in ahead of him. He closed his door behind him, only then giving her a half grin and a shrug. 

“I do apologize, Doctor. When the inspector stands like that, it means ‘end of discussion.’ You will learn, the more experience with him you have.” 

They stood inches from each other.  _ Is he trying to be helpful, assuming he’d given me good advice, again?  _ Slowly, she acceded to the point, deciding it was misplaced gallantry, yet gallantry nonetheless.  _ So...my plan is working! _ Julia smiled at him, eliciting one from him in return. “Apology accepted. So, the inspector is off to be with his family and his entire command is off enjoying the holiday. How about you? You did agree to make plans for celebrating with me.” 

He shrunk back. “I have more work today. Someone has to mind the store, even in Toronto the Good.”

“Why you?” She was immediately sorry she asked, because his face crimped.

“I volunteered. Most of the men have families, so I don’t mind.” 

She heard him say that, but she guessed he did mind, at least a little, because there was a momentary sadness sweep across his features. She calculated if she asked him to ditch his work, he’d tell her an outright ‘no’, so she thought about another gambit. Being an upright man, she’d try working on his honour. “Nevertheless, a promise is a promise. How about I pick you up at, let's say eight thirty? That will let you work the rest of today plus a couple extra hours. We can go somewhere we can see the fireworks. I know absolutely the best spot in the city.” 

She gave him her most winning smile, the one which usually melted the hardest reluctance or resistance. “And, of course, you can drive my car again…” she added to sweeten the deal. She saw him waver -- a good sign.

“Perhaps I will meet you?” he said.

Feeling triumphant, even if it wasn’t solely her own charms which turned the tide, she pounced before he could change his mind. “I have rooms at the Queens Hotel. I will see you out front at eight-thirty -- sharp! Toodle-pip.” She stood and nodded at him, making her get away before he could object. Over her shoulder she could swear she glimpsed him with a droll half-smile on his lips. 


	30. Chapter 30

**CHAPTER THIRTY**

**Saturday Night, July 1st**

**Toronto Harbour**

Julia loved the movement. Their fifteen-foot oared skiff rocked ever so gently whilst the two of them leaned back on makeshift loungers to enjoy the sky. A light blanket covered her shoulders. The lake surface was calm as glass, fireworks shooting high overhead. They sparkled and boomed with an echo coming back from onshore buildings. It had been going on, gloriously, she thought, for almost thirty minutes. “William Murdoch, I genuinely cannot remember the last time I had so much fun. Aren’t you glad I coaxed you to rent this boat and come out here?”

He stirred next to her. “Mmmm. I have never seen fireworks from this angle before; the water makes twice the display.”

Julia snuggled against him. He was gently radiating heat and an intoxicating combination of soap and a woodsy cologne which she’d only had teasing samples of before, and now she could revel in it at her leisure. He’d made no romantic overtures towards her per se, yet he had not distanced himself from her physically as they lay there is the dark. In fact, he was steady and relaxed if his rhythmic heart rate beneath her ear was any indication. When the fireworks display began the grand finale with a series of multiple, sustained explosions, she heard his heart begin to race. 

_ Don’t flatter yourself, Julia, this man served in the war. _

They both sat up to watch the finish and get ready for a short row to shore, where an outdoor circus was still going strong, full of bright lights and carnival music. She could make out the trapeze act playing out above the crowd on shore, competing with the fireworks for the audience’s oohs and ahhs. She smiled to herself, recalling how he tried to explain the arc of motion as it applied to the act’s apparatus. He was so animated and boyish she couldn't bear to tell him he lost her somewhere between oscillation and force vectors.

She leaned in to whisper close to his ear, speaking in between the launches of gunpowder and chemicals colouring the night sky. “When I was a child,” she told him, “my parents took me and my sister to our lake house or to the rowing club for Dominion Day. It always ended with fireworks -- the louder the better! After the war...well, it took me a while to not react to the sound of explosions, even a motorcar backfiring. I’m glad I can enjoy this now,” she admitted to him. “This is my first fireworks since I left for England.” The finale erupted with splashes of the brightest fireworks of the night in a cascade of colour and booms. They could hear applause and cheers from spectators on shore. 

He got on the seat and took both oars after making sure their boat lanterns, fore and aft, were turned up. “I had a similar reaction. I got over it by using the police firing range. Took a while…” 

“Good for you, for taking the bull by the horns, taking charge of your own fate so to speak. I approve.” 

She settled herself opposite him while he got the oars in the water and pulled the bow around. 

“I also quite believe the war changed, well, just about everything. I know I'm not the woman I was before. For good or ill…Can you imagine me as a typical debutante?” she laughed. He laughed with her, and it sounded so genuine it warmed her through and through. 

“I imagine it is all to the good for you, Julia. Toronto herself is not the same as when you left. For instance…” he paused and she saw a wrinkled grin, “we have a female city coroner now.”

Julia brightened. “Yes, we do,” she said, then turned immediately thoughtful. “William...I have to know, to understand. Why did you engineer my predecessor’s departure?”

He shifted slightly as if weighing what to answer. “As I said, it is not my story to tell.”

She pushed at him. “No, really, I need to know, if for no other reason that I do not wish to run afoul of whatever the snag was.”

He sighed. “Dr. Lloyd was a victim of the Spanish influenza epidemic. He recovered, yet was afflicted with vision problems as many other people were -- whether because of the infection or as a result of the ammoniated quinine used to treat it, I do not know. As an unfortunate consequence, he was not able to see well enough to perform his duties…”

She immediately grasped the problem. “He failed the _Ishihara_ test? Why, he’d be at a loss, particularly with reagent testing, chromatography, or litmus testing, or...oh, my...” She felt alarmed and sad. “How awful for him.”

He nodded. “He was ill-pleased when I was forced to point out the problem he was having, or when I had to redo his work. He finally admitted that all colours seemed dull and washed out to him, nearly grey. Instead of telling the truth about his disability and quietly resigning, he covered it up and then blamed me for harassing him.” 

_ It certainly explained a few things. _ “You let everyone continue to think you badgered him out of his job, didn't you?”

He shrugged. “I saw no reason to defame him. Dr. Lloyd can still successfully practice in some capacity as a physician….”

“But not a pathologist.” Another new idea came to her. “It was you, wasn’t it who gave me that box of chemical reagents. From your own supply!” He said nothing but she could tell she guessed correctly. It all made her feel better about her position as coroner, and even better about William. She snuggled closer. “Well, the new city coroner is feeling a little peckish. I wonder if we can grab some sandwiches and then I will let you take my motor and put her through her paces again, somewhere out in the country. It is only a first quarter moon and the stars are lovely and bright away from the city.” Part of her plan was to get him alone with her in a romantic spot tonight to complete her seduction in the privacy of her car -- or a blanket on the grass somewhere if it came to that. The night was warm enough. She was looking forward to getting him to make love to her... more than getting her basic animal needs attended to.  _ I might even miss him when I’m gone… _

Julia was jolted from daydreaming by the sound of a motor bearing down on them. “Look out!” He swung an oar to avoid collision when a bow-wave swelled their skiff upwards a split second before a narrow green prow sliced through the back of their boat, spinning her and him into the cool water. 

_ “Basta! Sei Avverito!”  _

A wave caught her directly in the nose and mouth when she came up, pushing her down again. Lake Ontario roiled dangerously. A mouthful of strong-tasting lake threatened her lungs and the undertow swirled her dress around her legs, leaving her in blackness, trapped in the fabric, unable to kick to the surface. She pulled at the water with her arms to get oxygen, but in the dark, buffeted by the motorboat’s wake, she had no idea which way was up. Her lungs burned, yet adrenaline surged through her muscles with a shot of strength. One hand clawed air because she felt her wrist squeezed and her body jerked by her arm with enough force to nearly tear her rotator cuff.

When her head broke the surface, she choked and heaved. He got her hand on the keel of the overturned skiff then grabbed more of her torso to pull her half out of the water. “What damned stupefied idiot did that!” she yelled, still gasping and spitting out half the lake from her heaving lungs. 

“Are you all right?” he croaked at her.

She pushed her hair from her eyes. “Yes. Yes. Hell and damnation! How far are we from shore?” 

“Can you swim?” 

“Not in this dress, but I can make it if you help me.”

An indeterminable amount of time later -- and him pulling her towards shore -- they straggled onto the beach, wet, disheveled, and out of breath. He looked ridiculous -- this usually immaculately groomed man with his suit bagging and sagging and his hair plastered over his face. How absurd the whole thing was, and how fickle her luck was at trying to seduce this too-serious detective. She could not help herself. She burst out laughing. She saw him try to hold back, but one little crack in his facade joined another until he let go with a belly laugh of his own. It completely transformed him.

After a moment, Julia exhaled. “Won’t we have quite the story for the skiff owner when we explain where the current location of the boat is,” she laughed at him again, his profile bright in the slim moonlight. He was so handsome, even soaking wet. The anticipation of kissing him once again flitted through her mind -- the anticipation which was becoming its own delight. 

“It’s too bad about our starry night ride...I was looking forward to it,” she sighed again, gesturing at their disheveled state. “I could still do with a bite to eat, and I imagine you could as well. I can have something sent up from the kitchen.” 

She smiled up at him, and she knew it was going to be impossible for him to say ‘no.’ 

There was not much of a resistance from him. “All right, Julia. Besides, I believe you insisted I leave my hat there.” 


	31. Chapter 31

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE**

**Saturday Night, July 1st**

**Queens Hotel**

His socks squished inside his ruined shoes. Murdoch trudged up the steps behind Julia, barely noticing, his gaze fixed on the damp dress clinging to her backside and the lovely pendulum motion as she ascended. A matron descending the same steps shot him a disgusted look and an actual harumph. He merely smiled at her innocently, keeping his thoughts concerning the dirty minds of busybodies to himself. 

_ I am only retrieving my hat.  _

She collected her post from the desk then took him up the stairs and into her third-floor apartment -- a bedroom and bath separated from a sitting/dining room by glass doors. He was astonished at how much of her exuberant personality was evident after only a brief residence. 

“May I offer you a sherry? Or brandy?” 

She was right there, a glass in her hand for him, standing so close her breath whispered on his cheek. He jumped a fraction as if touched by a spark, irritated with her and himself. Her hair had dried into soft kinks and ringlets, her blouse had lost all its starch, leaving it translucent along her bodice. 

“No, un...no thank you.” He raised a hand, stepping two paces backwards, aware of a charge in the air between them, luring him closer.

She stepped forward right along with him. “No? Are you sure? After what we have been through, a strong restorative is just what the doctor ordered.”

She took a drink, her lips and tongue caressing the rim of the glass. He closed his eyes briefly and declined: “No, Doctor. I think not.” He saw her eyebrows arch -- _ Was that mockery? A challenge? _ He noticed his heart racing, and his lungs pumping rapidly. “Not because of prohibition,” he said, the pulse at her throat beckoning him. 

“Are you sure? I think we both deserve to relax -- for goodness sake, we could have been killed an hour ago. Now the two of us are here, having survived an ordeal. Don’t you feel just so...alive?” She stroked his lapel. “Besides, you promised me we were going to celebrate. Why not indulge?”

Her eyes were locked with his, offering more than indulging in alcohol. “That’s enough, Julia. I don’t drink because I can be a nasty drunk.”

Her gaze was unwavering. “I don’t mind a little roughhouse…”

Something slipped a little inside of him. He pulled her towards him, his head mere inches from hers. “What do you think I am?” He flashed her a half smile. “A tommy keen to show you a good time? An uncouth character who will be impressed by your breeding, your social standing or your medical degree? I am not beneath you,  _ Doctor  _ Ogden.”

“No. I never thought you were,” she paused, taking a sip of her drink. “You are an enigma who intrigues me, and it certainly couldn’t have passed your notice you are a fine specimen of  _ homo sapiens _ . I am a red-blooded woman...you are a red-blooded male...” her voice was low and husky as her hand trailed down his chest.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the lonely ache, the yearning, the coiling anticipation in his belly. Once upon a time he’d very much been that sort of male, but that was before the war, before Liza had ….

“If you need entertaining, surely your sister could introduce you to any number of city bachelors offering excitement,” he hissed, determined to push her away before he suffered yet another rejection.  _ Even assuming it is men you want _ . __ She was already laughing at him -- he thought it sounded bitter.

She stepped closer. “Today’s woman is not meek and quiet. No pious walk and conversation! I believe women have the same intellectual constitution as men and the right to the same culture and development, and that led me to becoming a doctor,” she hissed back at him, eyes twin three-thousand-degree flames. “If the mundane was all I was interested in, I’d have married some insufferable twit from a fine family my father vetted for me...”

No words came to him so he merely nodded. 

“You chose to be a police officer though you could be something else. I am doing some good in the world where I am now.” She still appeared offended and trying to justify her position.

“Until someone or something better comes along. Justice demands dedication, not a dilettante,” he said.

“I’m no dilettante!” she fired back. “I took this job at the morgue so I could be of use, so I could help. And I  _ have _ helped!”

“But you’re not planning to stay on, are you?” 

“Oh -- so you care, do you?”

“I care that my cases are not thrown out because you will be unavailable to take the witness stand when we eventually get to court, because you’ve gone off to somewhere better or gone and gotten yourself killed.” 

“It’s not my fault some inebriated reveler swamped our boat tonight. Don’t be so dramatic!” Her hands found her hips for emphasis.

“You could have drowned!” 

“I can take care of myself…”

Without prelude she placed her lips on his, shooting a tingle along his carotid into his chest. He broke it off, his heart pounding, the slow escalation of desire overtaking him. 

“Take care of yourself?! You are constitutionally unable to _ restrain _ yourself,” he gasped. She was inches away, eyes still blazing, hands still perched upon her hips, her beautiful, brilliant, radiant face, so full of strength and challenge, and he thought about how unfair it all was. 

Julia seemed to just light a fuse in him.

He grabbed her and kissed her roughly, pyrotechnics erupting in his chest, sending sparks surging in his body, out to his fingertips. “You have been trying to seduce me since the hour we met. Well, the laugh’s on you. You have picked yourself out a eunuch!” He forced her hand to his soft crotch, his flesh crackling with energy where she pressed on him. Instead of struggling against him, she reached for his long dormant manhood, which, like the rest of him this past week, came alive under her touch. 

“Oh?” she purred, stroking him. “Are you quite sure?” she asked, enthusiastically kissing him back. 

“ _ Oh...God… _ ” 

A whimper of pleasure escaped against his will. He felt his heart pump blood south...to where her hand caressed, his body making him a liar. Instead of asking her to stop, his hips leaned in towards her, his passion arcing upwards while he savoured her soft lips…

It had been so long, yet his body remembered fireworks... 

**** 

Later, he lay across her bed, a half-smile pulling at his cheek, trying to remember the last time he’d been so whole, or so alive. Julia’s head was on his chest, legs entangled with his. He also proudly noted her smile and was relieved to know he put it there. He even thought he’d like to try again...

“So, William...tell me about this eunuch? Were you mistaken?” she beckoned, looking up at him. 

He kissed her. “The most recent experimental evidence suggests I was.”

“Mmmm.” She snuggled against him, pleasantly drumming her nails on him. He thought she was trying to decide something. After several minutes she surprised him. “Do you want to tell me?”

Did he?  _ She is asking about another woman whilst she is in my arms. This beautiful, remarkable, bold, iconoclastic woman is asking.  _ He shook his head in astonishment. Not only did she know his shame, he also knew her biblically now, apparently cured of one part of it… “I always assumed most women would be offended by discussing--”

Julia interrupted immediately. “I am not most women.” 

He liked the dangerous blue glint in her eyes. He smiled, holding her closer in his arms. “I noticed.” 

He was utterly amazed at himself. It was so unlike him to share anything of his private life with anyone except Eddie Cullen, and only then after realizing too late, that shutting Liza out had been a mistake. The unshakable understanding he had with Thomas Brackenreid and George Crabtree, one borne of the terror and intimacy of war, never covered this. 

Could he tell anyone -- let alone Julia Ogden, his brand-new lover, someone he may never see this way again -- his most acute pain? 

_ It is madness.  _

_ Isn’t it? _

He studied her closely, weighing his options...weighing his heart. “I always believed I valued the truth -- ‘The rock upon which we must stand.’ It’s something one of my old teachers taught me, a long time ago. Truth is what I seek through my work as a police officer because truth brings justice. Lately... I have come to understand that truth also brings great...pain.” 

She remained quiet in his arms. He’d been lying to so many people lately and look where it got him. _ Lying to myself, which was worse.  _

He settled her even closer, trying to slow his heart. “When I was away, in France...I saw things...and did things I never knew I’d ever be capable of.” 

She nodded and held him tighter. “Only the willfully ignorant would expect us, or anyone else to remain unchanged. It changed me. I saw what  _ war _ is capable of. I assisted doctors who sewed those boys up, and I held their hand so they wouldn’t die alone.” 

He nodded, glad she understood part of it, glad she had not offered an empty platitude.

“And your marriage?” Her prompt was soft, encouraging.

He was not surprised she asked -- _ So like her to do so _ . His instinct was to hold back --  _ So like me.  _ He was naked, in bed with her, talking as if they’d known each other for years instead of weeks. He decided she deserved the truth. To be dishonest was to be dishonourable, and he was done with that, come what may. 

_ No half measures. _

He touched her hair to soothe himself. “I’d been overseas longer than we’d been married. She felt abandoned, was desperately lonely, so quite naturally she made a life of her own without me. When I returned, two things were true: She quite naturally wanted to keep her new life and I was no longer the man she’d married. For a time, I drank, trying to forget...To hide from the fact my sweetheart was repulsed by me...To forget how monstrous I was.” He exhaled. 

Julia remained quiet in his arms for a long while, her complete awareness on him. “Whatever… However... you fought during the war -- you’ve chosen peace and justice now. Not a monster -- either inside or out,” she told him, tracing his chest with her finger. “What happened with … her?

_ This next part will be harder. _ He scanned her face. When Julia smiled at him, he could not hold back. 

“I never once thought about being unfaithful to my wife. Overseas she was constantly in my thoughts, I dreamt of her...all I craved was to come home and be with her again, but when I got home… Well it was all so different... Liza was willing to...to...well, submit.” He shifted, trying to release the feeling he was betraying Liza. “I never wanted my wife to endure relations as a chore. I hoped it to be mutual...as it had been before. I would never withhold from her, it’s just that...The truth is she fell out of love with me, and I found I could not…not...” He couldn’t say it. “That was three years ago.”

Julia stroked his head, kissing his chest as she lay there. She hadn’t gone running. She offered warmth, acceptance. Then she said the most extraordinary thing. 

“The heart is an anarchist, forever refusing to be governed. That’s no one’s fault, William -- that is also just the truth.” 

_ Truth.  _

He felt lighter than he had in ages, as if he was freed from a crushing weight he’d been unaware of carrying. He shifted and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at the woman below him with a grin he could not keep off his face. 

_ Truth _ . 

He wanted her. He lightly dragged his own finger down her body, circling her nipple light as a feather before making his way down to her legs. He relished her moan of anticipation as she spread her thighs and waited for his next move. 


	32. Chapter 32

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO**

**Sunday July 2nd**

**Queen’s Hotel**

He got his hat and silently opened Julia’s apartment door, leaving her sleeping deeply after talking with him half the night and another entirely successful session in her bed. He knew it was a hackneyed trope, but he felt freshly pressed, 10, maybe 15 years younger. His suit, on the other hand, was decidedly rumpled. Murdoch tried to smooth his favourite deep blue silk tie for the last time, having finally admitted the poor thing was beyond help -- especially as it encircled a shirt collar whose starch had all dissolved into Lake Ontario

He considered leaving a note, dismissing that as trite. His trench watch, which had survived worse than a dunk in a lake, told him he’d have just enough time to go home, shower, and change before dealing with one angry owner of a sunken rental boat and figure out how to interrupt his boss’ Sunday to tell Brackenreid what happened. 

He smiled to himself, closing the door softly behind him. If he wasn’t so intent on being stealthy as he went down the hall towards the back stairs, he might have struck up a whistle. He also would have noticed Ruby Ogden opening the door of the corner apartment, four doors down from Julia’s, before nearly running into her. He saw Ruby was dressed in evening clothes from the night before. She met him eye to eye, only pinking up slightly when he tipped his hat towards her and she swung her long silk scarf around her throat. She had a love-mark low on her neck she was trying to hide; even though she could not see it, under his shirt, he knew he sported one as well. 

_ An understanding of mutual shared destruction,  _ he hoped. “Miss Ogden.” 

“Detective Murdoch! Fancy meeting you here.” She looked him up and down as well, questioning his clothing -- wrinkles and all -- while struggling with the key in her door.

“May I help you?” he asked. He accepted the key, opened her door and returned the key to her palm. Since there was nothing that was not awkward to say, he bade her good morning and made for the stairs, a tiny bit of smugness creeping into his step. 

He was almost out of earshot when he could swear he heard Ruby Ogden say something like, ‘ _ I see my sister is a woman of her word…’ _

######

Julia wasn’t sure how she felt about waking up alone. On one hand, the morning after could be incredibly awkward -- especially if there were no plans to ever see one another again. Last night had been different. It had been more than an act of physical intimacy...there had been emotional intimacy as well, and Julia wondered if it would ever be a fling -- for either one of them. There was a peace with him that she hadn’t touched in years, and wondered if it wasn’t just her getting older, or had she met someone who could understand her?

_ Getting ahead of yourself, Julia. His wedding ring is gone, but he never got around to actually telling you if he was still married -- and you never asked.  _ But the ring  was gone, and she wondered if that was significant. She wondered if that had anything to do with her... 

William Murdoch certainly didn’t come across as the sort of man who would strut about town, but he had previously thought that he was incapable of pleasuring a woman, and he now knew that was untrue. What if he embraced his newly restored manhood? 

She got up, wrapped herself in her silk robe and settled on her couch to call down for the papers, then toast and coffee, and read her mail from Saturday while she waited. 

############

Murdoch sat for half an hour outside of St. Paul’s rectory with his eye on the priest’s quarters, a modest house to the rear of the church property. He watched as the priests made their way from the sanctuary to their residence, knowing it meant he lost his opportunity to catch Eddie Cullen in the church. Through the first-floor windows it was easy to see Eddie’s shadow as the man moved around his office, disrobing after mass, accepting his midday meal. Father Eddie Cullen was not going to find it unusual if he knocked on the door to gain admission. God knew he should unburden himself of his recent mortal sins; considering his life had been threatened, absolution might be a good idea. Eddie would approve. A private confession, communion, often camaraderie awaited, if only he took the first step.

_ For confession, I only have to say I am sorry and promise I will not sin again.  _

In his leather satchel were the required papers to file for divorce from Liza. He brought them to talk over with Eddie. All he had to do was sign and submit them.  _ She’d be free of me _ .  _ As long as I do not remarry, there is no risk of excommunication for me.  _ However, what happened last night with Julia left him torn. The impotence, dogging him for years was, miraculously, no more.

_ Can I win Liza back if we can have a true marriage? A family? Be her William again? _

He imagined going after his wife, trying to woo her back, rekindle their love -- or failing that, seducing her, demanding of her, begging her to return to him and start over. 

Through the window, he saw Eddie pouring his tea. _ Probably waiting for me,  _ he guessed. _ Eddie, who is going to wait patiently, for however long it takes, until I show up for the rituals and ceremonies. _

Mrs. Kitchen, on the other hand, possessed much less patience. She was fixing his favourite meal for his birthday and he did not dare be late. After luncheon was going to be a ceremony for the twenty-seven men the Toronto Constabulary lost in the Great War and unveiling of a plaque to their bravery. It was a familiar complaint he had with himself: So many died in combat, so many more stupidly cut down by illness or disease. Men were maimed and disfigured by the thousands only to come back to civilian life, wishing they’d rather have died with a bullet through the helmet at the front, since once home they were shunned because Society was uncomfortable with, even revolted by, a man who was not a whole and hale and handsome. 

__ He was deeply angry it was only dead soldiers who were honoured for their sacrifice.  _ Sometimes I think the dead are the lucky ones.  _

However, he had no intention of missing this ceremony for the world. 

He shifted the satchel’s shoulder strap, putting his back to the rectory and his feet on the pavement to walk home to Ontario Street, deciding confession was not even remotely possible, and missing Mass was the least of his sins. 

_ Because I am not sorry about what happened with Julia and I am not ready to promise anything to anyone… _


	33. Chapter 33

**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE**

**1100 hours, Monday July 3rd, 1922**

**Station House No. 4**

John Hodge's smile was a welcome sight -- he sidled through the cluttered office, bringing Murdoch a butter tart to go with his coffee, placing it on the desk with a surreptitious glance towards the bullpen. Murdoch followed Hodge’s gaze: Brackenreid was animatedly conversing with --  _ or bullying _ \-- Crabtree and Higgins, who stood at attention under the onslaught. 

Hodge’s lifted eyebrows were his sole commentary on the tongue lashing happening a few feet away. Instead, the Hodge held the huge grin on his face. “You must be getting better sleep lately, sir.”

“What...?” Murdoch nearly choked on a swallow of coffee.  _ What does Hodge know? _

“Well, you came in all bright eyed and bushy tailed and then there are your chalkboards -- I can tell you've had one of your brainstorms, sir. Everything is rearranged.”

“Ugh… yes…” He put his cup down and rose, pointing to the chalkboards. “Worcester claimed he was only investigating a fire, when Swift’s squad walked up on him and arrested him.”

“The only physical evidence was a burned painting? Not much of a case, sir,” Hodge pointed out. “Er, not one  _ you’d _ move forward with.”

“No. A large quantity of unexplained money was found in Worcester’s possessions when they searched his kit -- that clinched it.” 

“He insisted he was framed. What if it is true?” 

“That, Hodge, is an excellent question. If Worcester was railroaded, it was expertly done. Regardless -- if revenge for Worcester’s fate is a motive to kill Knox and Landswell, or for Knox to kill Doulton --- we are out of suspects. No... I think it is something else entirely, just as I am sure this is about those men in that squad -- I just know it. The military police were not as well-received by other soldiers as we in the constabulary are by the public.”

Hodge winced. “Desertions, you mean. Were any of that squad ever involved in a firing squad?”

“That's my first call this morning for the names of every squad member and for details of their deployments. I want you to follow up more on our Mr. Salt today, especially his background.” He rubbed his forehead and was about to pick up the telephone receiver when Julia approached his office, knocking on the doorframe. He straightened up as the ringer in Brackenreid’s office went off -- his boss ignoring it in favour of whatever was going on with Crabtree and Higgins. “Hodge, help me make room then can you please answer that call in the inspector’s office for him?” The man’s eyebrows migrated into his hairline, but Hodge compiled by moving the chalkboards, making more room for Julia to enter.

“Good day, Doctor. I was hoping to see you.” Her smile made his stomach flutter. For the first time ever, he hated that his office was essentially a goldfish bowl. 

“I was hoping for a word with you as well. May I?” She gestured to a chair. He saw she also took in the total lack of privacy. She shrugged and sat. “I came to thank you for Miss Pink’s name. She works quickly, already making progress with my quest to find the parents of my suicide victim. I was also curious how it went with the boat rental, I….”

He could not hear the rest of her sentence because Inspector Brackenreid started shouting his name. “Murdoch. My office. Now.”

_ That doesn't sound good.  _ He excused himself to get to his boss, but behind him Julia was right on his heels. Hodge, Crabtree and Higgins were already crammed in there. “Sir?” 

Brackenreid’s entire body bristled. “Forget what you’ve been doing. That was Randolph Swift. Says he thinks he knows who poisoned Knox and Landswell,” Brackenreid announced. “He believes one of his old squad, Argyle Hudson, is behind this whole bollocksed mess. Says Hudson called him in a terrible state and threatened him, even thinks Hudson tried to kill him, with -- get this -- poisoned cognac, except Swift didn’t drink enough other than to get sick. Says he thinks Hudson cracked because of the war, might try to kill himself or do a runner out of guilt.”

He was speechless. A man damaged by combat -- his life eroding bit by bit, year over year, until he became unhinged and homicidal -- was not anywhere amongst his theories of the case. He tried to picture what it would take for him to turn on Brackenreid, or Crabtree.  _ Never!  _

His blood surged. “Do we know where Argyle Hudson lives, sir?” He was already reaching for maps of Toronto to plot the quickest route. 

“No, we do not, other than Swift thinks here in Toronto.” Brackenreid turned to the men. “Gentlemen, we have only one task right now. We are searching for a man named Argyle Hudson. Higgins, get to the telephone exchange, find out where Hudson made that call from, and don’t leave until you get an answer. Crabtree, get out the city directories, and failing that, go to the land office looking for a name and address.”

He wanted to follow the military connection. “Hodge, call the veterans’ office. See if this Argyle Hudson is getting a pension and then check constabulary records in case he’s been in trouble with the law. Try the trade unions too.” 

“Do you have an old regimental photograph of Hudson in those files you and Hodge have been pouring over?” Brackenreid asked him.

“I’ll make copies. We’ll send the rest of the men to the train station and the docks, notify customs, and get pictures as far as the borders in Niagara Falls, Buffalo and Windsor.” 

“Good. Gentlemen, we must find Argyle Hudson immediately, by the end of the day at the latest! I don’t want to hear anything other than you are arresting him. Go!” Brackenreid unceremoniously pushed them all out his office, before grabbing his sleeve. “Not you.”

With a regretful nod and shrug in Julia’s direction, he reluctantly let her go, turning back to his boss. 

“Close the door and sit down.” Brackenreid sat on the edge of his own desk and hunched forward. “You and I have been through the war, and I’d trust you with my life. Have done, in fact. But I’ll say this plainly. Murdoch -- you have been all over the map. Distracted like a school-boy. I don’t know what is going on and right now I don’t care...”

“Sir--” 

“Don't interrupt me! Just what are you doing about it?”

“Sir. I have gone about this all wrong, I know that now. It’s like that parlour game Crabtree is always trying to get me to play. I had all the answers in front of me, the whole time! I never asked the right question.” He did not really have it in him to defend himself because he agreed with Brackenreid. He _ had  _ been distracted -- nothing of which he was going to share. 

“Humph… Our priority is arresting Perri and trying him for those 44 deaths. What ever questions you are asking almost got you killed, and our new City Coroner with you!” Brackenreid sounded furious.

“About that...I have assigned a constable to check on Dr. Ogden and the morgue.” 

“And the boat that hit you? Shouting  _ Eye-talian _ gibberish at you on the way by.”

“Not gibberish sir, telling us to stop and that it was enough. My guess is they either followed Dr. Ogden or myself and took an opportunity when they saw it. The boat was stolen and sunk. No evidence to glean, of course.”

“Of course. Christ! Perri covers his tracks well. Does mean you are getting closer to nailing him, though. What did you tell Dr. Ogden?”

He felt himself get hot. “Nothing, actually. I thought it wise to have her continue to think it was an accident, for now. I...um... made sure she was safe that night and besides...I hardly think she was the target, but better to be safe...”

Brackenreid’s eyes bored into him for a moment before turning away and sitting at his desk, shifting back in his chair. “Now, what do you think about this Argyle Hudson character?” 

“Sir, this has always been about those men, we just never asked the right questions about their connections. I... I never asked. What we lacked was motive. If not love, money or revenge, I suppose a madman is as good as anything. All shifts will focus on finding Argyle Hudson.”

“I am paying more overtime for this, aren't I?” Brackenreid looked resigned. 

“Sir. We must do this by the book. Hudson and tying him to Knox and Landswell’s deaths -- if the motive is from the war as Mr. Swift theorizes -- means there will be no scandal tainting Mr. Landswell, or other powerful interests by association.”

“News to make the Mayor and Board of Control happy, no doubt.” Brackenreid barked a laugh. “Leave it to you to find the sunshine spot. Just get your head out of your arse -- find this Argyle Hudson before anyone else has to die.”

**** 

Banished from the Inspector’s office, Julia could only observe the detective and his boss deep in conversation. Since waiting in the detective’s office was not the wisest of options now, she reluctantly returned to the morgue -- William Murdoch on her mind. She’d only meant to have a dalliance with an acquaintance, and move on. He turned out to be a complicated man and after what they’d shared last night, this was no easy fling with no strings…she only realized now.

Walking back over, she wondered if he would even want to see her again outside of the morgue or station house. He didn’t seem the type to be promiscuous, but she’d been -- disastrously -- wrong before in her judgement of men. Now that he knew his equipment functioned, did he want to go out and have fun? Was this primarily going to be a tom-catting situation for him? 

_ I’m not so sure how I feel about that.  _ She was aware of the hypocrisy.  _ Too many feelings for something that was supposed to be a lark…that’s for damn sure! _

She walked back into the morgue, resolutely put the matter aside, and tried her best to focus on work. But before she’d even had the chance to make a cup of coffee, Jack told her that her sister had called multiple times...insisting upon lunch.

_ Did Ruby already know? And what am I going to tell her? _

*****

Her sister’s expression reminded her of Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat. “Jules! Part of me didn’t think you actually would -- or that he actually would -- at least not so soon,” she excitedly bombarded Julia before she’d even had a chance to get settled.

Julia had a strong urge to slap that smile right off her sister’s face. “Ruby! Keep your voice down! We’re in public,” she admonished, but she couldn’t keep her own smile off her lips.  _ Ruby bet against me and I won the bet! _

“I can’t believe it! What was he like? What did you talk about? What…?’

Julia said nothing while ignoring Ruby’s pointed questions. 

Hoping for a brief respite from her sister’s pestering, she gratefully accepted the coffee which appeared at the hands of an efficient waiter. She slurped the first sip: it was hot and strong, just as she liked it. She stared below the rim of her cup at the shining brown liquid, so like the colour and sheen of his bright, intelligent, soulful eyes. 

_ William… _

It was extraordinary. Just like that, he’d bared his soul to her, his most profound shame. And proved to be a passionate, tender lover... 

Ruby interrupted her daydreaming. “Oh, you have to give me something! Tell me, Jules! Was he all he promised? He is quite the man, after all…” she went on excitedly.

“Ruby! That’s enough! I’m not one of your interview subjects, all right? I won’t be pushed around and I’d appreciate it if you’d give me space!” surprising herself with her outburst.

“Don’t bite my head off,” Ruby replied, taking a sip of her own coffee. “Ugh, this stuff is abominable. I can’t understand how you love it, and don’t say it’s because of the war.”

“I won’t, then. Just add sugar and cream, Ruby, it’s an acquired taste,” Julia laughed, trying to lighten the mood. 

“And have you acquired a taste for Detective Murdoch?”

“None of your business!” 

_ And I wouldn’t tell you if I did... _

Setting the sugar bowl down, Ruby looked skeptical. “You could not possibly have feelings for him! That would be regrettable and just prove my point that you don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

“Need I remind you that I am older than you and after everything...well, my definition of fun has changed, I suppose.” 

Ruby made a face at her then laughed mischievously. “Fine. But I must know, is he as fit as he seems?”

“Combat ready.” Julia just couldn’t resist a giggle. “He even has a regimental tattoo -- which seems so out of character, but I guess nothing should surprise me.”

Throughout luncheon she gave her sister only half her attention. Deflecting Ruby’s prying about her romantic attachments -- or lack thereof -- was not difficult. It was harder than she expected not to tell her sister all about the investigations she was involved in. Worse, she was sorely tempted to fill her in about the sad case of Olive Routledge, because Detective Pearce could care less, and Detective Murdoch had his hands more than full. She might love her sister, but she didn’t trust Ruby’s discretion. She imagined if she tried to discuss it with Ruby, her sister would stalk her and turn the rendezvous -- if she ever got one -- into an ambush complete with flash powder, probably wielded by that female photographer, Miss Genvieve Latcher. 

She was glad she’d left it in the capable hands of Miss Freddie Pink, the private investigator William had suggested. Now she was waiting on  _ two  _ important letters and the waiting was driving her mad!


	34. Chapter 34

**CHAPTER THIRTY- FOUR**

**1815 hours Monday July 3rd, 1922**

**Miss Henny’s Rooming House**

_ “Argyle Hudson, I am arresting you for the murders of Howard Knox and Conrad Landswell, and the attempted murder of Randolph Swift.”  _

The cackle of laughter erupting from Hudson’s bed sent an electric current up Murdoch’s spine to his hair, enraging him. 

He and his men caught a break in finding Hudson, working the problem until Higgins came back after two hours at the main telephone exchange, knowing where the call to Swift originated. They cross-checked it with the bank where Hudson cashed his war veteran’s pension cheques, granted him, after much difficulty, for being gassed. Constables went door to door, street after street, block after block asking about Argyle Hudson, until, finally, Miss Henny admitted he was her tenant and she knew for a fact he’d come in and remained in his room, “feeling poorly,” as she called it. 

Out of an abundance of caution, it took almost another hour to remove bystanders and get men in place. Brackenreid stayed back at the Station House, but Julia came along to help secure forensic evidence. 

Murdoch was wrung out and not amused at Hudson mocking him. “Mr. Hudson,” he growled, “this is not a joke! We have an accusation you provided poisoned alcohol to all three of them, except Mr. Swift did not drink enough to die.”

Julia looked at him, startled by his vehemence, but she said nothing, appearing to assess Mr. Hudson with her physician’s eye. The room had a sick-bed smell to it. Something was wrong with the man, perhaps with more than his mind. 

“ _ Me? _ Do in Knox and Landswell? Not me!” Hudson continued to laugh harshly until Murdoch ordered Crabtree and Higgins to get him to his feet. Hudson jerked away, rising unsteadily, a wild-eyed and sharp-toothed set to his nature. He spoke again derisively. “Detective, the joke is on you. It’s that rat bastard Randolph Swift what killed  _ me! _ ”

His dark brows rose towards his hat. Hudson was apparently as deranged as Swift suggested. “Come again?” 

“After all I done for him and all we been through, Swift turned on me. I still can’t believe it! He’s poisoned me.”

Not just deranged, full blown paranoia. “How is that?” Murdoch, asked. “Mr. Swift is concerned for your state of mind, sir. What happened?” 

Julia eyed him, gesturing for him to wait, then approached Argyle Hudson when she got permission. “Sit down, Mr. Hudson. Please.” He did as she bid him to. She checked his colour, his pulse, respiration and pupils. He had a sheen on his pale skin and his thin blonde hair was plastered to his head. “Mr. Hudson, what did you mean that you have been killed by poison?”

Hudson gestured towards the floor. “Them toadstools they call the Angels. Fed me them Saturday night is what I figured. I was sick as a dog yesterday and now the awful bad part has passed. But I know my fate. Saw soldiers die from it in the Great War if they was hungry or stupid enough to add them to their grub.”

“Why should he do that?” He did not understand where this was going. 

“To shut me up!” Hudson’s mouth and eyes were hard and his lungs heaved with shouting.

“You are certain, Mr. Hudson?” Julia interjected quickly with a worried look. “ _ Amanita ocreata? _ ”

“No idea what you just said, Miss, but if that’s a toadstool, yeah. Saw ‘em myself when I visited his place the first time. Set himself up as if he were a toff. He’s got this big glass house you see, likes to show off  _ ex-ah-tic _ things in it. They were not there anymore the last time I was there.”

His visual memory provided him with the scene of walking through Swift’s hot and humid greenhouse, with its collection of Canadian woodland plants. He had no trouble at all recalling the graceful white fungi amongst trillium,  _ Cypripedium candidum _ ,  ferns, Jack-in-the-Pulpit and May-apples. 

“Destroying Angel,” Julia breathed. She looked a second time at Hudson, the whites of his eyes, his skin, then nodded sadly. “Detective, if Mr. Hudson has consumed these fungi, even though he looks well at this moment, his liver or kidneys will irreversibly shut down. He is correct. There is nothing I nor any physician can do for him.” 

During the war, supplementing rations with whatever extra could be found, Murdoch knew, was a common enough occurrence, especially at the front. He’d heard of sickness and deaths from spoiled food, and more than one case of picking the wrong mushrooms. He made sure Crabtree was taking notes. He watched as Hudson shifted back down on the bed. “If this is so, Doctor, is he well enough to speak with me now?” 

She nodded. “His vital signs are stable, Detective.” 

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the room’s sole dresser. Instead of a quick arrest and hustle down to the station house, this was going to take a while longer. “Well, Mr. Hudson. You are making quite an accusation. One which will need some sort of corroboration. Perhaps you can start from the beginning.” 

“You know what we did, don’t you? In the war, eh?” Hudson asked gruffly with a wince. 

“Something happened to you. Something which made you turn on your comrades in arms and want to eliminate other members of your squad.” He laid out the gist of Swift’s information, interested to see how accurate it was. 

Hudson’s face twitched, making deep creases in his skin. “He says I’ve lost it? You know, don't you? Or didn’t Swift share that tidly-bit?”

“No.” Murdoch was feeling a rise in anxiety, his intuition yammering that his theory of the case was unravelling, yet again. “So, enlighten me,” he demanded.

Hudson barked a cough. “The case against Worcester was rigged. He never stole that stupid painting. We did and he got blamed. After the war we agreed to go our separate ways. Never to see each other ever again. Only way to be safe.” Hudson lit the tobacco and took a ragged drag of his cigarette. “We kept to that the last five years,” he said, blowing out smoke. 

_ This was about Worcester after all? How, in God’s name? _ Hudson’s words shocked him. “Go...go on,” he said, his mind racing.

“Like I said, we was in the clear. I never thought about it again, after all this time. I didn't know Worcester was all napooed and dead by hanging hisself. Poor sod.” 

Murdoch saw his opportunity. “It all fell apart when Cpl. Worcester’s family started making inquiries, didn’t it?”

“Worcester’s brother and that stupid girl, sendin’ her letters, stirring up trouble! Putin’ notices in the papers! Doulton was goin’ to squeal about everything!” Hudson complained. 

“Father Doulton was going to the authorities?”  _ Was this what set everything into motion? Letters to the papers and ex-military squad members? _

“Yeah. That’s what Doulton was supposedly goin’ to do. After the war he got religion, got hisself the collar. Preached to the wicked, he did, about their wickedness. A right  _ hip-o-crite _ , eh?” Hudson hissed.

“And Howard Knox?” he asked.

“Worcester’s brother must’a twigged Knox somehow -- I think by offerin’ money for information in the papers. Knox got hisself all in a flap by them sniffin’ around. When the brother jigged on him, Knox forgot our promise not to talk with each other and went to see Doulton. Knox must ‘a thought since they was mates in the Great War, what’s the harm? A priest can’t pass on what’s in confession anyways, now, can he? ‘Cept Doulton told Knox he was already ahead of him, already plannin’ to come clean.”

“Mr. Knox panicked, they argued and Mr. Knox stabbed him.” Julia added softly. 

Hudson’s eyes were wide, nodding back. “Knox s’pposedly told Landswell he didn’t mean to stab Doulton. Just the knife was already poking out of Doulton’s chest.”

That single stab detail was not printed in the Hamilton papers. He was intent on Hudson, knowing the Hamilton police never recovered the knife and none was found with Knox’s effects. “But he was dead just the same, and Mr. Knox pulled out the knife, wiped it off and, what? Threw it in the lake?” 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. He scarpered away.” Hudson sighed, sounding disgusted. “That sorry priest was goin’ to tell the whole tale to the world -- confess what greed and lies had been weighing on his tortured soul; and throw us to the wolves with him! If not for that we’d all be safe as houses!” 

He started seeing it unroll in his mind, picking his way through the distractions and red herrings. “To ensure your safety, you asked Conrad Landswell to pay off Howard Knox, then you changed your mind when things heated up, deciding you needed to eliminate both co-conspirators, Knox and Landswell, making it look like Knox killed Landswell then himself either on purpose or by accident, to close the loop and stave off any further investigation. When the police eventually linked Father Doulton’s and Conrad Landswell ’s murders to our suspect, Howard Knox, Mr. Knox, would be dead.” He pushed for the truth, egging the man on. “You even tried to kill your old lieutenant, Randolph Swift, in case he could provide evidence against you for stealing the painting and putting the blame on Cpl. Worcester. All to protect your own skin.” 

Hudson threw his cigarette to the floor and stamped it out. “Not me, I told you! It’s all about Swift, Detective Murdoch. You think four Canuck foot-sloggers like us was all that clever to pull off a smugglin’ ring?” 

“Smuggling ring?”  _ So.. _ . _ not just Worcester... _

Hudson looked from him to Julia to the constables and back as if doubting their collective common sense. “Wasn’t jus’ some painting. We was lootin’ for at least two years. It was Lieutenant Swift who was the brains of our little  _ en-ter-prise _ .” Hudson’s tone was sarcastic. “Each of us -- me, Landswell, Knox, and Doulton had a separate job, separate part of the gig. Swift did all the plannin’ and fencin’-- we suckers did the execution.” For a moment Argyle Hudson looked almost proud of himself, then his face closed in and he shook his head. “Stupid me...I was not worried when I saw in the papers that Landswell died. I wasn’t even thinkin’ much was amiss when I first heard tell Knox copped his packet from the drink. He al’ays was prone to the drunken zigzag. But it was Swift who got to Landswell and Knox.”

“How?” He eyed Julia, who continued to look skeptical as well. 

“Knox al’ays was our weakest link. It was Swift told me after Knox stabbed that do-gooder Doulton, that Knox hit up Landswell for money to get out of town, threatenin’ if he didn’t come across, Knox was going to try blackmail. ‘Cept Landswell had no cash to give. Landswell was already in a state, havin’ been visited by Worcester’s sweetheart, some girl named Lydia, askin’ questions about the war and what happened to Worcester. Some story about a picture that turned up that was part of what we nicked, got the family thinkin’ Worcester’s talk about being framed might be legit.” Hudson leaned forward, getting a breath from such a long speech. 

“You have confirmed for us Mr. Knox stabbed Father Doulton to death. Are you now suggesting Mr. Swift is the one who killed Mr. Knox and Mr. Landswell, not yourself?”

“Exactly, copper. You are catchin’ on!” Hudson smiled more smoke through his teeth.

“Except Mr. Swift received threats -- someone tried to kill him,” he pointed out. “He says it was you. We found you here because of the threats you made to him.”

“Sure, he did!” Hudson laughed sarcastically. “He’d say anything. Cook up evidence, wouldn’t he? It’s how he stuck it to poor Worcester in the first place. Probably got you all wound up to thinking Worcester’s brother or that girl of his was taking revenge or something, didn’t he? Nice bit of mischief now, wasn’t it? Then mebbe pointed you in my direction?”

Crabtree and Higgins both looked away because that is exactly what had happened. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Hudson, what you have said so far is merely hearsay.” He was getting frustrated with Hudson, who reached for the tin of tobacco and matches again. He withheld the tobacco, placing a firm hand on the tin lid. “How did Mr. Swift kill Mr. Landswell and Mr. Knox?” 

Hudson glared at him. “Swift set up a right booby-trap. Swift knew sooner or later Landswell was going to crumble too. Swift got to Landswell by playin’ on Landswell’s habit to put on airs and hobnob with the hoity-toity, by tricking Knox into deliverin’ Landswell a bottle of the good stuff, inside of which was yer poison. Swift knew the cheap, tight-fisted Landswell was never goin’ to share it with anyone and knew Knox was going to be unable to resist takin’ some for hisself. All the while Swift keeping his own hands all squeaky clean.” 

He let the tobacco tin go. Hudson coughed loudly after getting another cigarette lit. 

He paused at that. It was, in fact, a brilliant solution if it were true: Swift putting time and distance between two murders by having one man kill the other, then perhaps unknowingly kill himself. 

Crabtree looked up from his notes. “Sir. We never did positively track down who delivered cognac to Mr. Landswell. Might have been Knox.”

Hudson cut in. “You bet Swift arranged that! Besides, Knox couldn’t afford two pennies! Where else would he have gotten any of that stuff to off hisself with? It’s what happened, isn't it?” 

He and Hudson continued to stare at each other. That was another central piece of information from Julia’s findings never released to the public, that the exact same liquid killed both Knox and Landswell. It was also information only someone close to the crime would know.  _ The question was: Hudson himself? Or Swift?  _

He nodded slowly, hoping he was not making a mistake. “Mr. Hudson, it is a compelling story, but you are still not providing any proof,” he pointed out. 

“Ten to one, you’ll find you can track the poison and poisoned booze back to Swift. There’s your proof!” 

He thought Hudson sounded defiant and awfully sure of himself. He walked towards the hallway and motioned. “Higgins,” he whispered. “Find another man to cover your duty, then get Hodge and get a judge for a warrant to search Mr. Swift’s house.” 

He came back to Hudson’s bed. “Be that as it may, Mr. Hudson, before we get a doctor to thoroughly examine you, you still have to come with me to the station house to be booked on the murder charge and arraigned on the charges of smuggling and receiving stolen goods to which you have admitted. Your solicitor can argue your case on the murder charges, and you can swear out a complaint against Randolph Swift and we will investigate it.”

This time Hudson’s cackle verged on unhinged, a strangled giggle from his contorted lips. “No need, Detective Murdoch. I may be a gonner, but that’s one job’s right done. You’ll find Swift hangin’ in that glass house of his---I strung him high -- while his toady of a butler has his half day off. Just like that poor fool, Worcester.” 


	35. Chapter 35

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE**

**10 am, Monday July 1st**

**Outside Toronto General Hospital**

Inspector Brackenreid pushed open the hospital doors wide, halting on the top step to inhale deeply. The man looked like a wreck. “Christ! After all that, no one to arrest! All over a bloody letter. Now I’ve heard it all. Good night, Doctor. Murdoch, I want your report first thing tomorrow.” With that he replaced his hat, got in the police vehicle and was gone.

Julia stretched her arms towards the sky, reveling in the cool night air. It was after 10 pm as she and William walked out of the hospital, the constabulary having obtained a full confession, secured Argyle Hudson to his bed with handcuffs and posted a constable outside his room. She thought there was really no need for the last two actions: Hudson had deteriorated quickly in just a few short hours, and Julia knew the next time she was going to see him was on her autopsy table, most likely in the morning. There was nothing for it: just like nursing soldiers in the Great War, tucking them in and waiting for them to succumb to their wounds and die. It was just the way things were.

Beside her, William also stretched his shoulders, rotating his neck as if to let the tension go. Over the last several hours it felt to her as if the two of them were very in tune with each other, not so far as to finish each other sentences but… of one mind. 

“We never did have that coffee,” she said.

He shrugged, pointing at his watch, but his luscious brown eyes never left hers.

“I’m sure I could manage to scrounge something up at my hotel - even at this late hour...” she trailed off, matching his gaze. “I’d like to stretch my legs as well.”

“I will walk you home if you like,” he said.

He ordered the constables to take the remaining police motorcar back, while they walked the several blocks to her hotel, making innocuous small talk. Her skin tingled when he brushed her hand with his, and it was lovely when he politely took her arm. She found the anticipation to be exhilarating...imagined how her fantasies were going to be fulfilled...until her own worries intruded. 

Was he going to want coffee? Or me? 

_ After all -- the man was so damned literal! _

Her earlier high spirits faltered. What if his interest was all wishful thinking? He rid himself of his curse -- what need did he have to revisit the cure? He had not said word one about their night of passion. What if this was his way of telling me there was to be nothing more between them? She made several passes at getting him to open up, be explicit while they were walking -- to no avail. She offered up several of her best puns, getting a polite laugh out of him...nothing further. She decided to be even bolder, chivvying him up to her room instead of the hotel’s dining room for their coffee. All the while he was a complete gentleman, exactly proper. She began to think she’d have to spell it out for him…

No sooner had her room door closed behind her, he grabbed her, all pretense of propriety gone, and pushed her up against the door. Gone was any timidity of the prior night, and in its place was strength and determination. His confidence was clearly restored, and he was unhesitating, his experience as a lover on full display. 

She melted, yielding eagerly to him. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“You are intoxicating enough for me.” Grabbing a fistful of hair, he pulled her head back with one hand and held her face in place with the other, fervently kissing her before making his way down her neck with his mouth, sending delightful waves of pleasure through her. Pressing against her with his weight, she felt his arousal through their clothes and giggled in expectation. His stubble was rough against her skin, opening her floodgates of desire. Making a deep throaty sound, she closed her eyes. “So, it seems you like a bit of roughhouse yourself, William.”

“Care to find out, Julia?” he asked, abruptly picking her up and carrying her back towards her bedroom, dropping her on the bed to undress himself. Lest she be left behind, and excited at what would happen next, Julia hurried to shimmy out of her own clothes, eager to continue.

Soon naked, he pushed her back onto the bed and climbed atop her, pinning her hands on either side of her head as she squirmed to get closer to him. His weight felt delicious.

But he lay still, his eyes making steady contact, telegraphing his unspoken intention: this time it was not going to be out of pity or curiosity between them, but passion.  _ He wants to be in charge tonight _ .

_ Oh, I thought you’d never ask _ . She nodded at him and smiled. Being in charge was exactly what she was thrilled for him to be.

This time.


	36. Chapter 36

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX**

**11 am Tuesday July 4th**

**City Morgue**

If he’d been in control last night, he didn’t feel so this morning. Murdoch stood nervously on the other side of the morgue slab from Julia, running the rim of his hat through his hands. Just being near her sent him into a kind of overdrive. He’d gotten so used to the cocoon of colourless numbness around his life that now he felt exposed, especially since he’d not been able to speak privately with her since last night, when conversation was a distant second to carnal delights. Once he’d arrived at the office, he’d penned a dozen notes to her and trashed them all as either stuffy or juvenile or desperate. 

Last night, he’d been so eager to show her was a whole man -- now he wondered if he’d been too forceful, shown her a slice of his dark side, and frightened her off. A voice in the back of his mind only mocked:  _ Were you testing her?  _

Twice this morning he’d caught her alone, only to have Constable Crabtree interrupt them. The more time passed the more difficult it became. Was she avoiding him, or was just the demands of the work which created this increasing awkwardness between them? Then there was that offhand quip of her sister’s in the hall outside Julia’s door.  _ What did Miss Ogden mean, Julia was ‘a woman of her word’?  _

Even in the morgue, amongst the dead who were never going to spill their secret, they were not alone; their current chaperone was young Jack Lester, quietly going about his business in the background. He snuck a rapid smile at her across the corpse, hoping she was not aware how blatantly he was fishing for a connection.

She rewarded him with a sly curve of her lips. One band of iron let go of his chest. “Should I assume it was you who provided an updated microscope for the morgue?” she whispered. “There it was, dead center on my desk when I got in this morning.”

He dropped his own voice, ridiculously relieved by something as simple as a grin from her. It allowed him to breathe freely again. “You must allow me to help our work, Doctor. It is a step up from what you have here. I assume I can always avail myself of your graces when I have the need?” 

A cold wave overtook him when she made a shocked face. Too late, it registered that he made an embarrassing  _ double entendre. _ He stared at her in horror. __

Then she giggled and flashed a teasing grin before straightening and putting a professional demeanor back on. He, gratefully, did the same, thinking Julia Ogden was going to be the death of him.

She set her instrument down and wiped her hands on her holland apron to get back to business. “Well, that’s it, Detective. Mr. Swift died from asphyxia secondary to strangulation due to hanging. I can also now confirm Mr. Hudson’s cause of death is organ failure secondary to  _ Amanita ocreata,  _ complicated by an underlying kidney disease. Remind me to never go mushroom picking again.  __ Argyle Hudson was poisoned by Randolph Swift.” 

“Thank you, Doctor. But the facts in the case are not particularly well-established, even now.” He grumbled before remembering to be gracious. “We only have Mr. Hudson’s hearsay testimony on Mr. Swift’s version of events. Even Hudson said Swift was a one-man lie-factory.” 

“You have my autopsies and chemical analysis,” she said with a touch of annoyance. She put hands on her hips and her chin up. “So, Detective, you have wrapped up these cases successfully...with my considerable help. You have the mushroom samples. You have evidence of cognac and strychnine in Mr. Swift’s possession.” 

He knew he still wasn’t completely satisfied.

“But…?” she challenged him. “What more is there? You have a timeline from Cpl. Worcester’s family in their efforts to exonerate him, the newspaper inquiries, contacts with members of Lieutenant Swift’s police unit. It fits with Father Doulton, Mr. Landswell and Howard Knox reading the newspaper inquiries which started the series of events. All of this tragedy because of a few letters about a painting an ocean away from where it was supposed to be.”

“Yes. Exactly.”  _ A lot of disruption and pain from a few letters... _

She came closer, a drying rag in her hands, close enough to sense her warmth and the sandalwood scent she wore at work. Today she was in trousers and a high-necked white blouse. He imagined it covered up another love mark he made on her flesh. Her hair was tucked behind her ears. 

“You have Argyle Hudson’s statement about the Knox, Landswell and Doulton murders, a signed confession about killing Mr. Swift and a signed confession regarding their smuggling operation during the war, exonerating Cpl. Worcester,” she pointed out. “That is a great relief and kindness to Miss O’Mara and the Worcester family, righting a travesty of justice that their loved-one ever went to jail.” 

He gave her an apologetic grin. “Solved or not, Inspector Brackenreid always prefers that someone goes to jail. He is displeased there is no one left to arrest. And he is the one who will have to tell the mayor his friend had been part of a smuggling ring back in the war. I don’t envy him that.” 

“Well, envy is a sin, Detective.” Julia did enjoy a flippant comment or two. 

_ Most of it did make sense. Still...there may have been other things Mr. Hudson was blind to. _ “Doctor...what do you think about Howard Knox’s killing of Father Doulton?”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “You and I have already proven that, conclusively.”

“Well, yes...but...Think about it...how did a man without two pennies, as Mr. Hudson says of Knox, get the train fare to go to Hamilton and back, out of the blue? What if Swift is behind the whole thing?”

She was surprised. “How?” 

“By giving Knox the money and the motivation to confront Father Doulton.” He cocked a grin at her. “Imagine if we had an indifferent coroner with poor chemical analysis skills and no equipment.”

“An inferior investigation, where the cause of death went undetermined.” Julia nodded. “Considering my predecessor, it is likely. Mr. Swift may have even counted on that, in fact.” 

“As you said before: people have been hiding murders inside what look like accidents.”

“I did, didn't I? I may be getting the knack for this.” 

Her words both pleased him...and pulled tight on a thread of anxiety. 

Julia opened the cooler door, gesturing to him to help her push the gurney into cold storage. “ _ The Pardoner’s Tale _ ,” she said as she slammed the door shut.

“What?” He was whipped back to the room by the loud bang. 

“Chaucer’s  _ Canterbury Tales _ . You must remember -- it’s  _ The Pardoner’s Tale _ ,” she said excitedly. “The one where thieves all turn on each other out of greed. In the original story three men come upon a treasure. Two of them plot to kill the third to increase their share of the spoils, stabbing him to death. But the third man has the last laugh -- unbeknownst to his two compatriots, he has poisoned the wine, so he ends up killing them in return. In your case, it was Father Doulton, the pardoner, whose intention to tell the tale, as it were, set events into motion. Mr. Knox kills Father Dolton, takes poison provided by Randolph Swift to Conrad Landswell and unwittingly consumes some himself. Mr. Swift then poisoned Argyle Hudson who lived long enough to exact revenge by hanging Swift. It even includes a stabbing and poisoned libation just like in the original story! How positively ironic!” 

“Especially considering the men in Chaucer’s story deliberately started out in search of Death.” Accomplished, beautiful, and classically educated, only Julia Ogden would understand such an obscure, and accurate, reference.  Oddly, in this place  _ of  _ death, a surge of pleasure filled him. He caught her eye, hoping she could read his longing. 

“Destiny is a funny thing, isn’t it?” she said, holding his gaze. “One might say it reaches for  _ us _ , as much as we reach for  _ it _ , whether we consciously choose our path, or not.”

Her words were like a shock ran through him. He waited until her assistant drifted to the other side of the morgue and lowered his voice. “Julia… Regardless of the Inspector’s pique about no one to arrest and send to the cells, perhaps I might take you to luncheon in a little while, to celebrate a successful conclusion to our first case, er...cases together?” He tried to communicate with his eyes. There was so much he did not know how to put into words. 

He saw a smile bloom on her then quickly fade. Her eyes shifted away from him, sending his anxiety back into a full charge. 

“Perhaps another time. I have an engagement.” 

“A late dinner, then? We’d have more time--”

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid not.” 

It took an iron will to keep himself neutral, pleasant, against a surge of disappointment and.. _. _ some other unruly emotion which might have been shame: shame for allowing a romantic fantasy to supplant reason. “Perhaps another time, then. Thank you again, Doctor. This case could never have been solved without your expertise. Good day.” He tipped his hat and left in as dignified a manner as he could for his meeting with the crown prosecutor.

****

_ Oh, dear….  _ Julia recognized that shuttered look on his face. She shook her head. No time for wounded egos, and she could hardly explain why her afternoon was spoken for. The note she found on her desk this morning -- the desk which was in a securely locked and guarded morgue -- told her to meet the man from the roof where Olive Routledge took her life, across town at one PM sharp.


	37. Chapter 37

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN**

**1300 hours Tuesday July 4th**

**Station House No. 4**

_ “Murdoch! You’d better have something good!”  _

All eyes in the station house fixed on him the minute they heard Brackenreid demand information. The men’s curiosity bore into him from behind as he presented himself to the inspector’s desk, aware how he looked, hat-in-hand. This getting called on the carpet by Brackenreid like this was getting old. He made sure to pitch his voice so the ears attached to those eyes heard the news. 

_ Might as well put everyone out of their misery at the same time.  _

“Sir, Dr. Ogden confirms Mr. Argyle Hudson died from being fed poisoned mushrooms, which we can link, with physical evidence, back to Mr. Randolph Swift, whose autopsy is also complete. The Crown Prosecutor agrees there are no charges left to file. The Hamilton constabulary have been informed and closed their murder investigation.”

Brackenreid sighed heavily. “So, nothing left but the paperwork, and the bleeding press.” 

“Yes, sir. Mayor Maguire is planning to make his comments in time for the afternoon papers,” Murdoch explained. “I believe Miss Ruby Ogden will be there, representing the  _ Toronto Star _ .”

Not even that news cheered Brackenreid up, while the men stifled sniggers in the bullpen. “Oi! Don’t you lot have any police work to do?” Brackenreid bellowed, which sent them scuttling back to their tasks. His voice, while softer, remained irritated when addressing Murdoch. “What about Perri? You know Maguire is going to be asked about it. He’s been on me himself about our progress!”

It was his turn to sigh. He walked around to close both of Brackenreid’s doors for some privacy, then closed the blinds as well. “May I suggest you personally encourage the mayor to repeat ‘No comment during an ongoing investigation’, while reminding him how delicate it is at the moment when we are just about to spring our trap?” 

Brackenreid made a chuffing sound. “What else have you found out about this old bomb factory?”

“Canada Wire revived its pre-war plan to move their operation to Leaside. A brisk business, two shifts of workers run nearly day and night as demand for wire increases. At the same time, the complex is being re-engineered for even larger milling operations, supplying wire to the U.S. as well as domestic markets.”

“A real money maker then.  Perri’s operation? Are we sure this company’s management is all that blind to the goings on?”

“Hodge and I traced the batch of poisoned alcohol directly back to the Leaside facility. Perri’s gang use shift changes and construction to cover the operation. For the owner or manager to collude in bootlegging would be too risky, although it is true plant workers are involved. Perri, or John Salt as his agent, has slid a temporary re-distilling operation into a small unused building near the plant’s water tower, poaching the existing water and electrical resources. Hodge discovered Mr. Salt used to be a chemist for Royal in Hamilton before it shut down-- another point for Dr. Ogden who suggested chemists might get paid better by bootleggers than by legitimate distillers. The Leaside set up is nothing as grand as the Royal but larger than a moonshiner’s still as the Americans call them. Delivery of raw materials is aided by a bribe to one of the gate guards -- which is where we got our final bit of information, in exchange for leniency. We have confirmed all the particulars. It is large enough to produce liquor in necessary quantities, but small enough to hide -- or to abandon if necessary.” 

“Are we ready for tonight? It’s all set up? I expect each detail is double-checked.” Brackenreid’s face was keen, his colour high. “Christ! Keeping this whole thing secret is a slippery thing.”

Murdoch nodded. “In combination with the money trail we have already established, we can present the Crown Prosecutor his case.”

“Best we do,” Brackenreid said with feeling. “Too much about all of this is circumstantial. We have to ‘catch ‘em red handed _ ’ _ as Higgins so colourfully put it.” 

“Yes.” He also knew just how dangerous a plan he and Brackenreid concocted. “I think we should recall Higgins to keep the station house open. He’s too green, sir, for an assault like this. Rocco Perri’s bootleggers are likely to be heavily armed and merciless. Worseley and Weston will be back at four-thirty, leaving Crabtree and Hodge in place. The men will be ready to leave here at five.”

Brackenreid sat up, squared his shoulders, and tugged at his vest to straighten it. “More than both our badges are on the line, Murdoch.” The emotion in his old captain’s flinty eyes: it was not fear, but determination, the sort which kept the both of them alive in the war. “Right then. Over the top, eh Murdoch?” 

He snapped to attention. He couldn't help it; it was so natural. “Over the top, sir.”


	38. Chapter 38

**CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT**

**Tuesday July 4th**

At 1:00 pm sharp, she pulled up to the predetermined location along Grenadier pond on the outskirts of Toronto. The dirt road she came up left a dusty haze over her shiny car. Though it was a hot summer day, Julia felt a chill envelop her and she wished for something around her shoulders as she walked towards a bench at the edge of the pond under a willow tree, wrapping her arms about her for warmth.

Under the leafy green canopy, it felt a good ten or fifteen degrees cooler than the ambient temperature. Instead of pleasant though, it was eerily silent and dark, almost an omen of sorts. Too late she remembered William’s admonition to never go into strange situations alone.  _ I should have told Ruby, since I couldn’t tell William about meeting this man. It would be rather ironic if something bad happening here will be the reason I never see him again...  _

The skin on her legs raised goosebumps as a breeze blew through. Her heart beat faster as she took a seat on the bench, waiting for the man who managed to sneak a note into her private and locked morgue. A couple minutes later, she heard a heavy tread behind her, branches snapping as someone stepped on them. Before she could react, the man was beside her. Today he was dressed in an immaculate grey summer suit, vastly different from the rough tweed of their first encounter. He looked like a banker or wealthy businessman, right down to his mirror-polished shoes and City Gent’s bowler hat.

“What d’ya know, Doctor Lady?” he asked, skipping the pleasantries.

Sighing, she squinted at him, studying his face. He was exactly as intense as their first encounter. Deciding that truth was always the best response with this man she turned towards him. “I have concluded Olive Routledge took her own life. That will be the official manner of death.”

“So...not murder.” His shoulders slumped and fists relaxed. “She threw herself off that building? Why?” 

_ Why do you seem so damned relieved it was not murder? What kind of person are you? _ Julia hesitated, deciding to tell him to see his reaction. “She was distraught because she’d just gotten that news from an attorney, whose office is at that address, that the man she was involved with was already married,” she told him, looking at his face for any reaction. 

He flinched as if she struck him. Exhaling sharply, he took off his hat and ran his fingers through dark hair, muttered something in a foreign language, and stomped his foot into the ground. Turning his back to her, he took several steps away, to compose himself. Julia waited patiently. After a minute he turned around. “And the babies?” 

“They are currently at an orphan’s home in St. Catharines. They are well, but they miss their parents. Would you know where I can find their father?” 

The man’s jaw worked, his black eyes unreadable. “What about her parents?”

“A private investigator found them in Manitoba.”

“I...I’d be obliged if you’d arrange for them to get there.” 

“Don’t  _ you _ want to see them?” she asked, desperate for this man to acknowledge he was their father. Why else go to all this trouble?

“Just call me one of those, how do you say, Good Samaritans. See they make it there; I’d be forever in your debt if you’d do that,” he replied, shoving a thick envelope at her.

Holding the package, she could tell it contained what she assumed was a substantial amount of cash. “I promise I will make sure this gets sent along with them, to help her family care for them.” She stood to end the interview, angry with this difficult man, expecting him to disappear again. 

His face and eyes remained cold, frozen. “Say, you don’t happen to know anything more about those bootleg deaths, do you?” he suddenly asked.

“Some,” Julia reluctantly admitted after a moment. “Who did you lose that way?” 

“How many?” he insisted.

“In the whole region? Forty-four men and women lost their lives at last count,” Julia answered.

“ _ Porca miseria! _ ” he hissed through clenched teeth, balling his fists again. His face remained largely immobile, but in the shade of the tree she saw his skin darken. 

The hair on the back of her neck rose. 

“Doctor Lady, I thank you for all of your help. I mean it when I say I’m in your debt… I gotta go. I got something else I gotta do,” he said quickly, tipping his hat at her as he abruptly walked off. 

_ “And how did you get that note into my morgue?” _ she yelled at his retreating back. 

Julia glared at him until he reached a black motorcar where a driver waited outside, eagerly opening the passenger door and quickly closing it before sprinting back to the driver’s side. She watched the vehicle roar off, turning the meeting over in her mind. 

_ Well, this conversation is clearly over! _

She remembered the envelope of cash in her hand.  _ No amount of money makes up for a parent who abandons their children -- suicide or cowardice or indifference be damned.  _

She decided her priority was getting to St. Catharines and making arrangements for Olive’s children. Her heart ached for them and hoped that the Routledge family would love and care for them. No matter what she promised the ‘Roof Man’ about getting funds to the family, she vowed she was going to check up on those children --  _ personally _ .

*********

**3 PM Tuesday July 4th**

**St. Paul’s Roman Catholic Church**

Murdoch inhaled the familiar scent of St. Paul’s -- dust, incense and candle wax -- which settled his nerves. Instead of prayer though, his head was filled with police logistics, the beautiful, impossible, Julia Ogden, and his thick packet of divorce papers -- all of which continued to weigh heavily. What was worse was he could not decide if those last two items were related. 

A robust parish full of Catholic families like St. Paul’s supported five priests, making it easy for him to avoid Eddie Cullen in the confessional. He unburdened himself instead with Father Faire -- all of it, every mortal and venial sin since his last confession, adultery and angry arrogance to the end of the wicked alphabet of his transgressions. He expressed contrition, accepted a stiff penance and sat in the cool sanctuary trying to pray. 

In time, he finished his last prayer, putting his olive-wood rosary away, shifting abruptly back to the mundane when it hit his pocket. His soul might be lightened, but that did not mean anything had changed.

_ Maybe I should consider dropping in on Eddie to talk it all over, make a decision, get it out of my mind before tonight. _ After a long while of reflection he finally rejected that as unfair. 

_ None of it is Eddie’s problem and all of it will take too long.  _

He checked his watch, the round dial glowing softly in the comfortingly dim church light. Shift change at the old Leaside Munitions factory was in three hours and he had a lot left to do. 

The random thought that Liza might even yet get a police widow’s pension made him laugh at the irony as he walked outside, putting his hat back on.


	39. Chapter 39

**CHAPTER THIRTY -NINE**

**5:30 pm Tuesday July 4th**

Julia felt exceedingly pleased with the results of her day’s work as she closed up the morgue, satisfied that her attendant, Jack, had things under control. Her plans for Olive Routledge’s children were in the works faster than she anticipated and the last corpse in her cooler was finally sent off to his eternal rest. Her reports were typed, her reagents were inventoried and re-ordered. Julia’s smile of delight flooded her whole body. 

_ I  _ _ am _ _ getting the knack of this job!  _

She slid her cloche over her hair and gathered up her crocheted gloves and handbag after changing out of trousers back into a sleeveless cotton dress. She even tossed her aubergine silk shawl around her shoulders for a bit of style. She closed and carefully locked the heavy door behind her, enjoying the soft, dry, late afternoon air outside. She was looking forward to a nice dinner with Ruby on the veranda of the Rowing Club, where they could experience a nice breeze and cold lemonade whilst appreciating the well-muscled rowers who practiced sculling a dozen yards away. The afternoon post also brought welcome news about her Ontario Medical license which she looked forward to celebrating. All in all, an excellent day. The only things left to bother her was the Roof Man’s reactions.

_ Grief is such a messy, human condition, I suppose I must make accommodations. _

It annoyed her that she was unable to talk any of this over with Ruby this evening. If she did, her sister would undoubtedly certainly turn it all into a lurid article for  _ The Star. _ Her mother would be shocked, and Mickie would rag her for deviating from her professional role. If she called Dennie in Hamilton, her best friend was bound to think she'd gone crazy for getting involved. Detective Pearce was out of the question. That left William Murdoch as her default confidante in these matters. 

Julia crossed the lane which stretched between the morgue and the back door of Station House No. 4, reveling in the temporary reprieve from Toronto’s early July heat. Once inside, she scanned for him, noticing a second or two later how strangely quiet it was so near shift change when the number of men usually swelled by about half. 

“Constable Higgins? Where is everyone?”

The young officer looked up from poking through a book on the station house’s imposing front desk, giving her a nervous smile. “Oh...Doctor Ogden.” He wasn’t more forthcoming than that, but he did straighten up. 

She looked around again. Aside from Constable Higgins, there was no one else visible. She assumed one officer was monitoring the cells. “I am looking for Detective Murdoch. Is he available?” 

Higgins smirked down at her from his high perch. Julia arched her brows back at him and he blushed.

“Oh, I...I suppose it’s all right that I tell you, Doctor. I mean, you're one of us, aren’t you? I mean it's a big secret to-do after all, gotta make sure the newshawks or the hoods don’t get wind of it. Left me back here to mind the store and answer the horn...um... be their look out here, I mean.”

Julia blinked. Most of that was decipherable but did not answer her question. She thought he looked much too young to be holding such responsibility. “I see. And where have they gone, exactly?”

He coloured again, motioning her closer, with a show of sliding his eyes around as if checking to be certain no one could overhear them in the empty police station. “They are off to put the finger on the goons who passed around the poisoned giggle-juice. It's a big bust they’re after. They took both shifts and every heap in the police garage, opened the armory and everything!” Higgins sounded impressed with the fire power. “Could be a shoot-out.”

Julia did not like the sounds of that. She could tell Higgins was torn between feeling smug about being left in charge and disappointment about not being where the action was. “With all the policemen in one place, it would be a great time to commit a crime.” Her little joke got a huge belly laugh from him, which he cut off abruptly when it dawned on him who was going to have to answer any calls for the police.

“Oh, hell, er...pardon me...I mean, that’ll put me in a jam...do you think so?” he asked nervously; the whole idea obviously not so much fun anymore. 

“Yes, yes, I think so. Now, if you would be so kind, please tell me where the detective and the rest of the men are?” When he continued to hesitate, she pressed. She was developing anxiety about an impending shoot-out, even allowing for Higgins’ exaggeration of the situation. “Do they have an ambulance on call?” He shook his head. “Then do you not think it is wise to send a physician along? If it is going to be this shoot-out, as you say?”


	40. Chapter 40

**CHAPTER FORTY**

**5:50 pm Tuesday July 4th**

**Canada Wire, southeast corner of Laird and Wicksteed, Leaside**

**NE of Toronto**

“Stay loose and move it!”

Murdoch moved his team in, quickly, carefully, from the northwest. Brackenreid’s team, also in civilian clothes, worked their way from the southwest disguised as shift workers. Canada Wire was a large complex including two behemoth flat-roofed production factories, two power plants, support warehouses and a railroad siding, all spread out over many acres of land. 

He and Brackenreid decided to take the same advantage of shift change as the bootleggers did, to enter the complex unobserved as raw materials were delivered, surround the building and arrest the gang and their head, Mr. Salt, in the act. To make certain nothing went awry, Sergeant Weston manned the vehicle entrance booth today, letting the bootleggers and their transportation vehicles onto the job site with a plan to corral them upon exit. This time, there was going to be plenty of evidence to make charges stick -- up to and including murder.

The Don River contained any eastern escape. Just in case, they placed a pair of armed men on each bridge over the Don, prepared with a vehicle roadblock, and pairs of constables with shotguns at the western intersections ready to stop traffic. The inspector’s team, arriving in place first, was going to secure the entrances and exits to the old munitions plant while his men were going to do the actual raid on the distilling operation building. 

Crabtree waited for him at the north team’s prearranged assembly point. Along with smelling the acrid pong from the factory, Murdoch immediately saw something was wrong, so he stepped aside to get the report in private.

“Give it to me.”

Crabtree’s face was pained; he scrubbed his hand over it before speaking. “Sir, I...I lost Mr. Salt. We knew he was coming to the factory, so I...I wasn’t surprised when he left the restaurant to come here, right on time when we expected him to. I followed him easily enough until we got to Bloor and Yonge.”

“How long ago was this?” He frantically calculated alternative scenarios. It was critical to the whole case to capture John Salt receiving stolen goods at the distilling operation.” If he is not going to be there, we must know now so the operation can be pulled back.”

“About twenty-five, thirty minutes ago.” 

“Is there any chance he got wind of what we are up to?”

“I don’t see how. He was nowhere near a telephone as far as we know; no one approached him. I..I lost him in traffic.” 

He damped down his panic. “Crabtree, please get the inspector on our communications box.” He got the handset and he waited while static buzzed and popped until Brackenreid came on the line. “Sir? Can you confirm Mr. Salt’s motorcar has arrived at your location?” He and Crabtree waited another agonizing minute before Hodge took over with the answer. 

_“Sir. His motor is parked outside Gate Three and I saw him walk towards the distilling building with two other men not five minutes ago._ ” 

His whole body reflexively stiffened. _Salt arrived too early. That was not the plan._ “Thank you, Hodge,” he said, considering if this news changed anything.

_Dear Lord, I hope not!_

“Hodge, please tell the inspector we will stick to schedule. The first shift whistle is about to blow -- that’s the signal to proceed.” He rang off and turned to Crabtree. There was nothing to say, everyone knew the plan and their part. 

_This is it._ He cleared everything -- the war, Julia, Liza, Eddie Cullen, guilt, divorce -- from his mind, walled it all off again in that compartment of his brain where he parked distractions. Put aside everything except his objective. This was familiar, this marshalling of men, this rushing towards a fight. He knew it was adrenaline and reveled in the exhilaration. 

He and his team were at Gate Three in time for the factory’s piercing steam alarm, blending in seamlessly with long lines of men flowing into the plant, duffels over their shoulders. In only five minutes the whistle would sound again, releasing the outgoing shift. Crabtree joined him, shoulder to shoulder between buildings in a crowd of workmen, picking their way past vast piles of metal and coal, picking up the pace, covering ground with long strides.

Ahead was the blocky two-story building which promised to deliver up Rocco Perri once and for all. Murdoch and his men circled it in two-by-two formation, like a wolf and his pack stalking a moose; exceedingly difficult and extremely dangerous, but worth it if it worked. Three delivery bays were open, workers brazenly carting barrels into the building. The plan was to let them unload and leave, then Murdoch and his team take the building in short order. Crabtree looked impressed at how efficient the unloading operation was. Murdoch and his men were in final position as the second whistle went off just as the last truck took off and the last bay door slammed down. 

He checked his watch. Two minutes to wait before breaching the front. Every pair of constables counted down from their own locations where their jobs were to take the bootleggers into custody and prevent anyone from escaping. Beside him, Crabtree breathed deeply, his colour high, his eyes focused and bright, looking out for danger. They got out badges and shotguns from their duffels.

“One minute,” he whispered to Crabtree, who nodded, pulling his cap around so the brim was towards his neck. William did the same -- the war taught each of them it was worth your life to be unable to see above you in a fire fight. The two of them moved closer to the main door for a bit of shade, letting their eyes start adjusting to the low light they will encounter inside. “Thirty.”

Murdoch kept his eyes on his watch, counting down while his heart rate became more rapid in preparation. _Three. Two. One._

_“Go!”_

Crabtree did his quick magic on the lock and they barged in. Crabtree lunged right to get the lights, he darted left into the two-story portion of the space. Ahead were second floor glass offices overlooking the production floor. _“Halt! Toronto Constabulary. Everyone down on the ground. Now!_ ” 

His shout and the chich-chich of sending a shell into each of their guns reverberated within the dim building. The _empty_ building. He saw un-lit burners under three large copper vats with brass columns and tubing, boxes and crates, stacks and stacks of barrels and hissing canisters -- but not a single person. _Hissing???_ Four steps in he smelled it.

 _“Crabtree! Stop…”_ he screamed the order, but Crabtree’s hand was already moving the switch, creating a small arc of electricity, enough to ignite the gas. 

A hot roar pierced his ears as the pressure wave flung Murdoch against the building’s concrete floor with an excruciatingly painful _whump_ . He got up slowly, dizzy, choking on smoke, wiping blood away, desperate to locate George. Inhaling air was painful. Through a grey haze he saw Crabtree slumped against the wall, underneath the light switch. He hobbled over to him. Crabtree’s eyes were open. _Thank God._ “Crabtree!” he tried to croak. “Get up.” 

He hauled on his friend’s arm, nearly losing his balance when Crabtree lurched to his own feet. Behind him constables were coming through doors on the opposite side of the building. Murdoch and Crabtree helped each other back out into the sunshine, gasping for oxygen.

The next thing he knew he was lying on some grass. His ears rang and his head and back were killing him. “Where is Crabtree?” He wasn’t sure his voice produced any sound. 

“He is fine.” The reassurance was muffled. 

He read her lips just to be certain. _Her lips?_ “Julia?!” He blinked, bewildered to see her bending over him. 

She repeated. “Constable Crabtree is fine, Detective.” He heard it better the second time. “Nothing is broken, you or him. You just got the wind knocked out of you.” 

He pushed her aside, not bothering to puzzle out what she was doing here. He turned over, getting his scraped hands and knees under him in order to rise. Brackenreid moved to give him a hand. “I have to get in that building, sir. How many of our men are dead?” Once up, he wobbled, grabbing the inspector’s hand to steady him. 

“None, Murdoch.” Brackenreid looked like he was shouting to be heard.

“Good. And the bootleggers? How many dead? How many did we arrest?” He noticed his jaw hurt when he talked.

Brackenreid’s face crumpled. “None. Because we found no one in the building, no one alive that is. We’ve got damned nothing except a busted-up building. No arrests, no proof and no bloody Rocco Perri! For Christ’s Sake, what the hell happened, Murdoch?”


	41. Chapter 41

**CHAPTER FORTY-ONE**

_ “Come again??!” _ Murdoch was certain he misheard Brackenreid. He  _ had  _ to have misheard.

“I said we caught exactly no one except three truck drivers, who will say they were paid to deliver and are not responsible for the contents of the truck. Someone wanted this investigation scotched and you dead. What was that explosion? Was it booby trapped?” Brackenreid asked.

He nodded and was immediately sorry he moved his head like that. “I heard and smelled gas. All it took was a spark. No one was in the building?” 

“Just one man. The bastards went out using a tunnel between the buildings. According to the plant manager, he says they are a leftover from when it was a munitions works. Perri’s men dispersed into dark corners like roaches or went la-tee-dah right out the gate. As for the distilling operation, not much of an explosion or fire. One poor sod is still in there, upstairs. Looks like he was a laggard in making his getaway.”

“I must see to the body, Inspector.” Julia cut in. She brandished her medical bag for emphasis. “You cannot move it before then.”

“And I have to see the crime scene before anything more gets cleared away or disturbed,” he insisted.

Brackenreid looked at both of them as if they were daft. “There is no need. The floor upstairs is in bad shape. The building may not be stable.” 

Julia answered before he had a chance to come up with words. “The fire has gone out. If it was a weak explosion and the building was designed to be bomb-proof,  _ and _ it is still standing, what more could you ask?” she pointed out. 

The inspector glared at them. “We have taken preliminary photographs. Send in one attendant to just get him out of there. That should be enough for both of you.”

Murdoch kept eye contact, waited only for Brackenreid’s shoulders to slump a fraction before he moved off towards the building, demanding his legs and his balance to carry him with dignity over to the door. The building appeared intact from the outside if one overlooked a broken window or two. The doors were open and he was halfway through before he noticed Julia following him. 

“You cannot come in here, Doctor. I think this one time it is not necessary for the coroner to see the body  _ in situ. _ ” He gave her what he hoped was a smile and a small bow. It was hard to tell because he was a little woozy. For some reason he thought that was going to stop her. 

She shouldered past him. He sighed and followed. Inside was dim. He could see outlines of the distilling equipment which were a little dented but upright. The wooden interior was torn up, much of the bracing gone. Barrels were smashed but since low proof alcohol was not particularly flammable, there was no conflagration. He wondered if whoever set the gas off knew that. Julia did let him walk up creaking stairs to the second floor first to test the risers. They seemed sound enough under his weight, so she came up behind him. All the glass was blown out of the windows up here, and the floor protested alarmingly. In between rows of heavy wooden desks was a man’s body. He was prone on the floor, pieces of glass shrapnel and window mullions sticking out of his back. Stepping gingerly, he and Julia approached the corpse, the floor creaking under each footstep.

“Cause of death?” he asked, half joking. He automatically sketched the sign of the cross with his fingers, then made his own survey of the crime scene, trusting his own senses, even in their scrambled condition, more than any photograph.

“Other than debris being violently propelled through his flesh by explosive force? We both saw this in the war.” She knelt next to the body, struggling with her dress, shawl and medical bag to get there without damaging her outfit or shoes. “He’s still warm. I’d say he died within the last hour at the most, consistent with the time of the explosion. No bullet holes, no blunt force to the back of his head. Not much blood from the wounds, but that can be explained several ways. Could be other damage we cannot see from this angle. Can you help me turn him over?”

He knelt across from her and got his hands on the dead man’s shoulder and hip, pulling the corpse toward himself so she could see the dead man’s front, making sure he did not stab himself with anything sharp in the process. “What do you see?”

She pulled something out from the corpse’s jacket. “Well, this, for one.” She showed him a leather portfolio and set it aside. “And this.” She pulled out a bill fold and handed that over, going back to poking and prodding the corpse with her fingers. “No obvious wounds on this side. His skin has  _ vibices _ marks from the rough floor and is mottled, but the body has been prone, so blood collects for  _ livor mortis.  _ That usually takes at least thirty minutes, but...well, that is an average. Oh...but this is unusual around his neck, though. I wonder about...” Her eyes widened when the floor made a huge pop and jerked downward under their feet.

The cement block building might be bomb-proof, but the wooden interior was not. The weight of all three of them in one concentrated spot was making the floor fail, and that was pulling the cinder-block walls inward as well. He released the corpse to grab Julia with one hand and the evidence from the body with the other. He pulled her to the back corner as the floor beneath them caved in. Then the whole building made a threatening crack and groan. 

“William. We have got to get out of here!” Julia was at the back window, twenty feet up from the ground outside, trying to get it open.

He got to the sash and the two of them pushed the huge, heavy window open. Behind them he heard Crabtree and Brackenreid shouting. He yelled at them to get a ladder and go to the back of the building. Outside the wall was shear except for an overhang above a door about five or six feet to the left and ten feet down. Another tearing screech and snap, and the building shuddered. Gravity called desks and heavy file cabinets towards the center of the floor to their doom. More dismaying was a giant steel safe about to head the same way. The effect was to peel the entire floor, edge to edge, away from the wall. He assessed the situation, stuffing the portfolio and wallet underneath his shirt. “Julia, I don’t think we can wait. Give me your shawl.”

“Why?” she asked but whipped it off for him anyways. She yelped when more of the second floor tilted and gave way.

He eye-balled the purple silk material and length. He stretched it diagonally and made a substantial knot in one end and wedged it at the edge of the window, then made a knot in the other end. “Do you trust me?” he asked. Part of the sidewall was bowing inwards, pulled down by the wooden beams. “ _ Julia! _ Look at me! Do. You. Trust. Me?” He hoped so, because his idea was as daring as the horse divers at Scarborough. 

She showed no hesitation. ‘Yes!” 

He got on top of the windowsill. “I am going to swing out and over to that overhang below us. Then you are going to unhook the shawl, make a tight loop in it, come out of the window holding on, and then I will swing you down to the ground. Do you understand?” He had no trouble seeing the arcing pendulum motion in his mind. He prayed she understood the physics. 

Her eyes glinted. “Like the aerialists at the circus?” 

The building protested again. Quite against his conscious will he reached down and kissed her. To his delight she kissed him back, then he was out and away without another word. In two tries he planted both feet on the small roof one story down, and wedged himself behind a small balustrade, his feet securing his position.

She moved immediately when he signaled her to get out of the window and swing on the makeshift silk rope. He took the strain as her weight hit the silk, dug his heels in, then redirected the downward fall with a tug for angular momentum, pulling her into an arc. Muscles in his arms and back strained to their limits, but the two of them managed to make an effective pendulum so that she did not drop like a stone, and his shoulders remained in their sockets. He swung her out and back, depositing her on the ground with some force, but unharmed. He tied the silk off again and shimmied down. The two of them were taking stock of their disheveled and torn clothing by the time the ladder arrived.

“Detective! Doctor! Are you alright?!” Crabtree looked frantic. “What happened?” 

Brackenreid wasn’t far behind, looking aghast as well. “Murdoch. You let her go in there with you?!”

“Sorry sir. You were right,” he admitted with a wince. “We will have to use our observations and the photographs already taken. And we will have to collect the body from the rubble. I am so sorry, Doctor, for not insisting you remain behind,” he apologized to Julia. “That collapse will complicate your autopsy.” The effects of being blown up and their defenestration escape made everything ache and he was unable to stop a certain tremble in his legs and hands. He knew part of it was the let down from their escape -- and knowledge of how close it was.

“Extracting that corpse from the mess you made will take hours!” Brackenreid was nearly beside himself. “What do you have?”

He extracted the items Julia retrieved from his shirt and handed them over. Crabtree took one and the inspector the other. “These were found with the body, perhaps…Good Lord! This wallet belongs to Giovanni Salieri, or so it says here. Why would  _ he _ be dead?” 

Brackenreid was holding up pages to the light. Frustrated, he got his glasses out to read better. “This folder is business records. A distillation and distribution timetable. I have batch numbers from where the denatured alcohol laced with methyl alcohol came from at G&W. I have bills of lading. Receipts. Invoices for barrels. A calendar of appointments. A list of addresses of blind pigs and speakeasies for delivery. It contains evidence that our quarry, John Salt AKA Giovanni Salieri, was involved in producing and distributing the poisoned batch of alcohol. This corroborates everything we already had on him...and more.” 

“We don’t know it _ is  _ John Salt. Not for sure. I suppose someone could have planted the wallet on him…” Crabtree cautioned.

“Whoever he is, he got himself blown up by his own still before he could clean house and get rid of all this evidence. This is a right cock-up and we have to pull something out of it or the Chief Constable will have our guts for garters,” Brackenreid lamented. “Then there is the bloody press!”

His stomach churned, sending a squirt of burning liquid burning up to his throat. “Sir, I agree with Crabtree, it is just too suspicious to be a coincidence. We must determine positive identification and then...”

“Gentlemen.” Julia stopped them bickering. “As I was trying to tell you, Detective, when we were so rudely interrupted by the building falling down: whoever that man is, he did not die because of the explosion, though perhaps it was only minutes before. I have to do the full autopsy, of course, to verify, but in my estimation, he was strangled.” 


	42. Chapter 42

**CHAPTER FORTY-TWO**

**Late Tuesday Night**

Murdoch hauled himself up the staircase to his rooms, juggling a stack of mail, a report he needed to finish and a sandwich he needed to eat. Crabtree had been prescient after all: He had gone after Rocco Perri -- a ‘big fish’ -- and it pulled them all under. The operation at Canada Wire had obviously been tipped off. Rocco Perri escaped justice. There was no one to arrest and try for forty-four murders. He, Crabtree and Brackenreid only stopped arguing the finer points of the whole disaster after the victim’s body was unearthed and Crabtree positively identified him as the man he’d been following: John Salt. It was also obvious Salt had been throttled.

He stumbled at the top of the stairs. Exhausted was too generous and benign a word for how he was now. The adrenaline ran out hours ago, leaving him spent and hollow. The explosion might or might not have been meant to kill him, but it was certainly set to cover the murder of John Salt, their direct connection to Rocco Perri. Why Salt was killed, who killed him and why the evidence was left behind or did not go up in flames was a mystery. 

A building was destroyed. The mayor and control board were screaming bloody murder. The Chief Constable demanded an accounting from him. Lawsuits were in process. His job was in jeopardy. The inspector’s too. 

His head pounded, making these truths jab at him with each heartbeat. 

His vision blurred and his usually logical mind raced in circles to nowhere -- when his thoughts weren’t racing headlong toward Julia Ogden. Today’s debacle wasn’t bad enough -- he almost killed her in the process. His litany of sins was staggering. 

He ground his teeth against the headache.  _ All because I failed. Spectacularly.  _

He just about got to his bedroom when balance and surface tension in the stack in his hand gave way to the other laws of physics. One letter postmarked from the U.S. slithered out and hit the floor. His body registered the sender even before his conscious brain read the return address, heat quickly reaching his ears with prickles. His mouth went dry just looking at the fine Spenserian script he knew so well. He hesitated, his heart thudding, before drawing in a ragged breath, stooping to pick it up. His fingers trembled. Slowly he opened it.

A thin gold band fell from the envelope. Then a silver chain with a pendant slipped through his fingers, along with his last shreds of self-possession. 

_ Dear William:  _

_ Why are you still holding on to me? I have not heard anything from my solicitor that you initiated divorce proceedings. As sorrowful as I am, I have to do what my conscience tells me the truth is -- it is time to let go. Release me. Release yourself. I know Catholics do not believe in reincarnation, but perhaps if it was not to be for us in this life, we can find each other in the next one, and try again.  _

_ You are in your rights to seek divorce. In the whole seven and a half years of our marriage, do you know I have counted it up? We were only together about eighteen months. You went away to the war so soon after we wed, and were gone three years; I have been gone another three.  _

_ You are a decent, honourable man. We both changed, but I was the one who fell out of love with you. I came to understand why you could not give affection if I could not give you love. You were never the problem, I was. I bear all the responsibility. You can prove desertion. But if you won’t, then I shan’t wait anymore either. I can obtain a divorce here in Nevada. It will not be easy, but it will let me let go of the past and live a full life again.  _

_ Please, William. I care for you, I do, I need for you to know this. It is the truth as well. If things had been different, if there had not been that awful war, if all those people had not died from the influenza, if we had not been separated...I think we could have tried to make it work.  _

_ So many things taught me how fleeting life is, how fleeting is happiness. For now, in my life, I must be true to myself and rejoin the living. I have recently met someone who wants to start a family with me. That is why I need to move on, away from the past, into a future of my own. If you ever loved me, and I know you once did, let me go -- for my sake and for yours.  _

_ With hope you will do this last thing for me, _

\-- _ Liza _

He read the salutation again. _ Dear William...Oh, Liza. Of course, you want a family. Deserve one, too. _ He dug into the wound, the pain releasing an animal sob from somewhere deep in his soul, the last tiny fragment of hope tearing away. 

_ Too late...I am too late. _

Tears collected in his eyelashes and ran down to his chin. He’d known this had to be coming, didn’t he? Calling himself the worst sort of fool for feeling so shocked and unmoored by the obvious. 

_ The great Detective Murdoch -- Who could not pick up on a clue if it bit him… _

Shaking his head, he bent to pick up Liza’s wedding ring from the floor.  _ So small. So light _ . _ So much meaning.  _

Setting his jaw, he placed it with the silver horse pendant next to his own wedding ring on the highboy. 

What does it say about me, he thought, that I am not more upset? 


	43. Chapter 43

**CHAPTER FORTY-THREE**

**9:00 am, Wednesday July 5th, 1922**

**Inspector Brackenreid’s Office**

_ Oh God… _

Julia Ogden did not like the look of this, not at all. 

Inspector Brackenreid himself ordered her over, rather imperiously, she thought, which brought her across the laneway with a bit of an attitude -- and without changing her clothes. If the abrupt summons wasn’t bad enough, once she arrived she passed by a mute and terrified-looking Constable Crabtree parked stiffly on a bench. In the Inspector's office she was confronted by Ruby sitting ever so primly on the inspector’s leather settee, with William looming over her radiating agitation of some kind.  _ Was that worry or disapproval? _ Both probably. 

She had no real idea what this was about, other than judging by the Inspector’s red glower it was probably going to be bad, so she decided to brazen it out. “Just what am I doing here, Inspector? I am in the middle of an autopsy.” 

“Your sister!” The Inspector rustled the paper in his hand and boomed: “ _ ‘Bootleg Booze Bust Burnishes Brackenreid and the Boys of Station Four.’ _ That’s this morning’s front page of the  _ Toronto Star _ . How in blazes did you get all these details, Miss Ogden?” He pivoted away from Ruby and straight at her. “From _ you _ , Doctor? Because the both of you are about an inch from being tossed in my cells!”

Julia barked right back at him. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Inspector. I have not seen the papers today nor spoken with my sister about this case -- or any other!” She glared at Ruby.  _ Just as I predicted for my sister to drag me into something _ . “If the papers are suddenly happy with you and spelled your name correctly, what is the problem?”

Next to her Ruby was uncannily quiet, calm and collected in the midst of the shouting. William was silent as well -- but hardly calm. She studied him more closely. He seemed… different... 

He met her eyes -- uncomfortably, she thought -- and he spoke: “The problem is that Miss Ogden’s byline is on this story and she has details of the raid on the old munitions factory yesterday which are not publicly known. One: that the victim found in the building was born Giovanni Salieri. Two: that Mr. Salieri conducted a secret re-distilling operation at the factory which was the source of the poisoned alcohol causing the deaths of 44 poor souls and countless other illnesses. Three: that Mr. Salieri was killed during the sabotage of his operation just as the constabulary conducted a daring raid on the place. The article also mentions how the constabulary tracked his operation down and destroyed a significant portion of the illegal alcohol distribution network in Ontario.” 

He ticked these facts off on one hand. “There is information about the operation’s finances and distribution network. As an extra they printed a public service warning about how hard it is to remove methyl alcohol when it is used as an adulterant. She also refuses to explain how she came by these facts. One obvious conclusion is that you are her source.”

“That is not true!” Julia insisted, stepping up to challenge him. She noticed he was silent on the actual cause of Mr. Salieri’s death by strangulation. “Ruby, did you use me? Lie to me?!” 

“I must protect my sources, Detective,” Ruby piped up. “However, in this case I can say unequivocally Julia is not one of them. Rather, she has been tight-lipped about her work as City Coroner…”

Julia held her breath. She knew that tone in her sister’s voice. Ruby was dangling her knowledge of Julia’s exploits as a warning of mischief to come. 

Ruby continued, unperturbed. “...My article also explains how the derring-do of Station House No. 4, against all odds, saved the city from even more dastardly events. I only told the truth, Inspector Brackenreid. You are commander here, are you not? Detective Murdoch, did you not lead the raid with Constable Crabtree, and great physical peril to you both? And then did you not save the new city coroner’s life from that collapsing building?” Ruby paused meaningfully. “As for the explosion at the distilling operation...it seems the owner of Canada Wire is more than happy to be praised for cooperating with the constabulary as a way to abate the humiliation of hosting the operation right under their noses, plus, the Mayor and Control Board are pleased to claim bragging rights for possessing such fine officers as yourself who work for Toronto the Good, in their delight to one-up the city of Hamilton.”

Julia was stunned. Did she really hear that correctly? William looked equally blown over. He’d not bemoaned the events of yesterday to her, but she knew he never expected an unmitigated disaster to be portrayed as a triumph. 

“Miss Ogden,” William began, trying to sound reasonable, “part of our investigation was seriously compromised by leaks to the very same criminals we were trying to arrest. A leak that nearly got all of us killed. Including your sister.”

Ruby cast a worried look her way, but Julia was too furious to grant any reassurance. He was turning all his interviewing powers against Ruby, who was herself no slouch in that department. _ He is better.  _

“All of which indicates corruption within a very tight circle of individuals,” he continued. “You must understand that whoever gave you this information, be it from a police officer, someone in city hall...that person is in the pay of organized crime and must be brought down. I can assure you we will not connect you to him...or her...as a source for the story, but we do need to know who that is so we can investigate and arrest them.” 

Ruby smoothed her pink linen skirt diffidently with gloved hands. Julia had a moment of observing the contrast between herself with her hair pulled back behind her ears, in her trousers and rumpled shirt, probably with blood stains on it, and Ruby decked out in a tidy summer skirt and jacket, complete with coiffed hair under a cloche hat and white silk around her throat. 

“Miss Ogden?!” This time it was Inspector Brackenreid who insisted on an answer.

“No,” Ruby said plainly. “I will not reveal my source.”

The inspector continued, unrelentingly. “It has come to my attention that you have been keeping company with one of my constables, George Crabtree. The information you have in your article could have easily come from him. He is about to come under suspicion and possible arrest. It will ruin him. Is that what you want?”

“God! No!” Ruby looked appalled. “But I must maintain my journalistic integrity.”

“Then young lady, you are going to have some time to think harder about that in my cells. Hodge!” Inspector Brackenreid shouted.

“Sir...!” William objected and at the same time Julia did.

Ruby remained stubbornly seated, arms crossed, then she rolled her eyes. “Oh, if I must, I will reveal a little. You are correct, Inspector. I have been working on a story, but my investigation had only just started. Yesterday I received the bulk of what I based my story on from a nice man who only gave his first name as Rochbert. Said to call him Bertie. He told me he believed in justice and said he thought it was only right that whoever poisoned all those people deserved to pay for it. He said that only Mr. Salieri was to blame and deserved his fate, and he gave me all sorts of proof, copies of records...a veritable treasure trove. Our newsroom verified it and my editor said to go with it.”

“Rochbert? What’s a bloody German doing with all that information on an Italian gang? And why you, Miss Ogden?” Brackenreid asked.

Julia observed Ruby squirm in her seat and scoff before speaking. “He said that he gave them to me because I was the sister of the city coroner and he owed her. Something about an apology and a favour. I have no idea what that meant and he disappeared as quickly as he could.”

All eyes were on her now. “Whatever for?” Julia’s voice cracked in surprise. “Don’t look at me. I have done nothing to alter the results of my work at the behest of anyone. The only favours I have done lately have been for Station House number four. I hardly think…” She locked her jaws shut. “This is ridiculous! Ruby, gentlemen, I have a corpse to attend to. I will see myself out.” She made it almost to the station house front door, when William caught up with her.

“I apologize for that, er...Doctor,” he said. “Will you come to my office, for a moment? I promise it won’t take long…” 

Julia hesitated, relenting only because Inspector Brackenreid and Ruby remained deep in discussion, with Ruby holding her own nicely. She allowed herself to be escorted to his office, pushing aside two huge blackboards for her to get to a chair. She laughed lightly, trying to shake her anxiety off. 

” I hope you can understand how it looks,” he said. “I believe I can get the inspector to see reason about the whole affair, especially since the article is rather flattering. We do have a leak, someone out to sabotage us, but I think we can rule out Crabtree and I don’t think it is you. Although it is quite the coincidence your sister’s newspaper story ended up exonerating all of us.”

“Saved your bacon, as Constable Higgins might say.” 

He kept a skeptical face. She could tell he was working out how to make sense of it all.

“I…” she struggled for the correct words. “Aside from this shocking development with Ruby, is everything...I mean everything else all right? I mean not that anything’s wrong…” Her eyes nervously jumped around his office, landing on his chalk boards full of names and plastered along the top with photographs of murder victims on one and suspects on the other.

“I am just fine; however, I was hoping we could make time later for a few words in private...um... Julia?”

She heard him but ignored him, her eyes riveted to a single black and white portrait. The man’s intense facial expression was captured well and hard to forget. “Detective? What are you doing with a photograph of the man from the roof? I thought you did not wish to involve yourself with Station House No. 9’s suicide case?” She shot him a suspicious glance. “I only gave a description -- how and why did Detective Pearce give you that picture? Or are you double checking  _ all _ my work?” She was starting to feel outraged.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is the man who told me who the suicide victim was. I helped find her children and get them to their grandparents…” She rose and pointed to the picture. “Detective Pearce was going to try and find him and interview him. Is it really impossible for you to believe anyone else but you can do an adequate job?” She swung on him angrily. “I expected better of you!” 

_ Honestly! Just when I think he and I are going to get along… _

“Julia…” His voice was strained. 

“What?!” she snapped, infuriated with him for such bad form.

“That is Rocco Perri!” 


	44. Chapter 44

**CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR**

_ “Wait...what?”  _ Julia’s voice squeaked. 

“That is a photograph of Rocco Perri. Are you certain that was the man involved with your suicide victim?” She appeared to be speechless, only nodded at him. Murdoch’s thoughts whirred, as he picked the photograph off the board. “Your sister said a man named Rochbert gave her the information for her article. Extremely accurate information about the whole case, notably leaving out the true cause of death for Mr. Salieri. Rocco is the diminutive for Rochbert --- or Bert...Bertie.” He could barely believe it. “Julia, I think….” He stopped, looking at her face. She looked shocked and speechless. “There was no leak to the press. Rocco Perri gave your sister the information for her article.” He was not sure how Brackenreid was going to take that, because it also meant Rocco Perri was one step ahead of him the whole way, and the constabulary played right into his hands...

“Can you believe it?” Rather than shocked or fearful, Julia looked positively...gleeful. 

He was dumbfounded.  _ This answers so many questions!  _

“How extraordinary. We have been working on parts of the same mystery all along.” Julia kept going on excitedly. “Those must have been his children, I knew it!” 

_ She was magnificent -- bold, brilliant, unshakable. Too bad she won’t like my answer. _

He sent a glance over to Brackenreid’s office where her sister was still holding court. He shook his head. “Rocco Perri handed over his own man, John Salt, also known as Giovanni Salieri, because distributing poisoned alcohol hurt Perri’s business. Perri killed a man. Handed him over dead, instead of us arresting him, alive, to be tried in a court of law where he might implicate Perri.”

She looked chastened. “And you think he will get away with it, don't you?”

“Perri has effectively insulated himself completely from any guilt and we have no evidence tying him or anyone specifically in his organization to the murder of Mr. Salieri. He eliminates a threat to himself and sends a message to anyone else who hurts his business that the penalty is death, all in one blow. And I am not certain you wish to have someone murder for you as compensation for your actions.”

“And the apology?” 

“Someone was sent to drown me in the lake by ramming a boat at us, and mistakenly sent you in the water with me. I am quite sure that was no accident, Julia.” 

“Oh.” Her eyes held steady.

He studied her remarkable face, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Your sister should have given you more credit in her newspaper story.”

“Since Ruby got her information more or less directly from a criminal it is hardly surprising my contribution was overlooked.” 

“Point taken. As for the rest...”

She took both his hands in hers. “Later, Detective…”

Her face turned up toward his, her lips parted. He was certain she was going to kiss him, and his lips twitched in anticipation thereof when he heard a chair scrape against the floor outside his office. He unwound his hands from hers and stepped back. “Doctor...the rest of today is going to be, well...difficult. Do you suppose…”

“How about dinner tonight?” she asked, her eyes never leaving his.

“Yes. I’d like that, and I think we need to talk.” He found himself smiling at her. 

“Yes, we do,” she answered, reaching for his hand and giving it a slight squeeze, hoping to allay any concerns about her interest.

He squeezed back. “Seven o’clock? Have a place in mind?” 

“I do. Someplace private. Let me confirm and I’ll get back with you.” She departed after gracing him with a saucy smile.

***

Murdoch sat at his desk after finally finishing his report, staring aimlessly about his office. Shift change left the station house quiet. He should be feeling elated. Instead of losing his job in humiliation, his reputation was more celebrated -- that Rocco Perri had orchestrated most of it and was going to get away with murder was not a happy thought. It had taken all day for Brackenreid to calm down enough to make up a coherent story that was both truthful enough and believable enough to satisfy the Mayor and Chief Constable. 

It took longer to extract a promise of complicity with said story from the Ogden sisters. In the end they both saw the logic of it and the benefit. 

_ Thank God.  _

While writing up his notes, he struggled to focus, his attention divided by anticipating his rendezvous with Julia and the tools at his workbench, picking them up and putting them down, just for the fun of playing with them -- something he hadn’t done in years. Standing up and looking at his stack of  _ Scientific Americans _ , he smiled. He had no concrete ideas as of a project yet, but he looked forward to puttering about this weekend provided there was no pressing case. In the last few years his life had focused too much on work; in the last few days he’d come closer to losing that life than any time since the war.

His eyes rested on the framed photograph on his green filming cabinet. _ Me and Liza. _ It was the image which carried him through the war, gave him someone and something other than death to think about, someone and something to live for.  _ We were both so young and in love-- then. _ Picking it up, he gave the image a last glance before sliding it away in the back of the cabinet with the rest of his closed cases, shutting the metal drawer firmly. 

_ This is now. _

He needed to back out and enjoy life again. Lord knew, Brackenreid and Crabtree, even Mrs. Kitchen had nattered on about that subject often enough. Did it include the tantalizing Julia Ogden? He’d spent a good part of the last several days trying to figure out what he wanted, what was even possible between them. He still had no clue, other than he knew that if things didn’t work out with her, that he’d be fine too -- that there was something other than death on the other side of loss. 

Walking to his desk, he picked up the final report on the raid at the Leaside factory, and decided to take it to the inspector’s office to hand it in personally. 

“Thanks, Murdoch,” Brackenreid replied, taking his glasses off to take the folder. 

“We are never going to get Rocco Perri for John Salt’s murder, are we sir?” he said. It wasn’t a complaint, really. More a statement of fact.

“I sincerely doubt it.” Brackenreid scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Arresting and convicting Perri for the bootleg booze deaths was a long-shot, right from the beginning. Even convicting Salt and getting him to turn on Perri was going to be a heavy lift. We have no physical evidence at all of Perri garroting Salt and leaving his body in the factory to be blown up. I won’t say Perri did us a favour…” Brackenreid didn’t finish the thought, only gave a tired smile. “What a day! Can’t say I want to do any of that ever again, although it did net me a diner at the Albany Club with the Mayor. You just might be looking at Toronto’s newest Alderman...and if so, you just might get that promotion to inspector you deserve.”

He checked to see if Brackenreid was joking. “We’ll see.”

“Indeed we will.” Brackenreid laughed. “I’m about to head out of here myself, and I insist that you do the same. We have bloody-well earned it.”

“I plan on it, sir,” he answered, unable to keep the grin off his own face. 

“Are you now? This sudden yen to depart at a decent hour wouldn’t have anything to do with our new city coroner, would it?”

He never could get anything past Brackenreid. He looked down, not wanting to answer. 

“Murdoch...You don’t need a defense attorney suggesting the coroner’s office is in bed with one of the constabulary’s detectives -- literally or figuratively. Understand?”

The implications had already occurred to him...so many, so very many ways this could all go terribly wrong. He only nodded.

“Just be careful, me’ old mucker.” 

“I will sir, I promise.” He knew there was no point in lying to Brackenreid, and no reason to start now. 

His boss chortled. “Well then, it’s probably time you get out of here then...Take a ride on that bloody noisy machine of yours. When you see Dr. Ogden, find a way to thank her on behalf of the constabulary.”


	45. Chapter 45

**CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE**

**Toronto Rowing Club**

At 7 pm sharp Murdoch pulled his Indian behind Bungalow 5 at the Toronto Rowing Club, cutting the engine and putting the kickstand down. He hung his helmet and goggles on the handlebars.

He took a second to make sure his exterior looked presentable even if his insides were feeling disordered, went around front then knocked softly. Julia answered wearing a sleeveless, layered ice blue chiffon ensemble with a dropped waist, plunging neckline in the front and back, with an underskirt hemline that fell, daringly, just _above_ her knees. A gossamer over-dress floated over the whole affair. 

She looked so lovely the sight took his breath. As he stepped in, a waiter was setting a table for two -- white linen, candles, flowers, dishes under silver covers next to chilled champagne. 

The waiter bowed and Julia slipped him a bill, dismissing him. Locking the door behind her, Julia turned and leaned against the door, smiling back at him.

“William,” she murmured.

He was getting used to hearing his name. “Julia, you look beautiful...this color suits you.” 

“Thank you, unfortunately the style is not too practical for work, but I do like to have a bit of fun now and then.” 

“Yes, I do believe fun is essential -- now and then.” He walked forward to pull her into his arms. He savored the feel of her against his body and stifled a growl of wanting before pushing her back. 

“There’ll be time for that later, William. You know, when I first met you, for a long time I thought you were much too serious for any kind of fun. What did you think about me?”

He started. He remembered very clearly exactly the moment he laid eyes on her, bending over a corpse, thinking she was kissing it or otherwise compromising the scene. _Then, for a long time I thought you and Dr. McDaniels were an item._ He tried not to laugh at how absurdly wrong he had been. “I thought you were a pagan and a hedonist. I wasn’t wrong.” 

“Touché.” She laughed. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” 

He thought her laugh was delightful. “It has been days since I had a proper meal,” he laughed back. When he was with her, laughing came so much easier now.

She put a record on the Victrola and winked at him. He recognized _The Stolen Kisse_ s foxtrot. Helping her into her chair, they sat at the table, savoring the meal. He did not often get to enjoy such fare: seared scallops, asparagus, and poached pears. He got the first few delicious mouthfuls down when she asked about his investigation.

“Closed, thanks to you. I did a little more digging for you as well. The Hamilton Constabulary found that Rocco Perri was paying Olive Routledge’s bills, meaning she was his mistress...well, second mistress. He left his first wife for a woman named Bessie Starkman. She runs his business interests for him now.”

“But she did not hold his other interest for long, it seems.” Julia popped a bite of asparagus into her mouth with her fingers. “As for the rest, I promised I’d never speak of it again. So, shall we move on to safer topics?”

“My pleasure, Julia.” He wasn’t absolutely certain, but did he detect some trepidation about a woman holding a man’s interest? 

During the rest of dinner they spoke of current events and recent articles in _Scientific American_ about forecasting earthquakes. Having an intellectual equal, and one so beautiful made the time fly. He tried to keep focused on the food and conversation, and ignore the growing angst within his chest, but eventually the food was gone and dessert consumed. 

All afternoon he’d rehearsed what he really wanted to say, his prepared speech now evaporating under the flame of his growing worry. No matter how he turned it over, he kept circling back to the heart of it: _How can I hope she and I want the same thing when I’m not certain what it is I myself want?_

Getting up from the table, they moved to the couch, where Julia arranged for a pot of coffee to be served. Her initial choice of music and the private, romantic setting aside, she made no reference to their relationship the whole meal -- for once -- no forward innuendo or outrageous flirting. She put on another record, crossed her legs and pulled them up under her skirts on the cushion. His nerves hummed as he took his seat beside her and prepared himself. He did not take her hand, but held her gaze, searching for a sign. 

_What was there to lose? So, so much. Ah...but what is there to gain?_

“Julia…” he fought a nervous grin, rushing his words forward. “Julia, we make good partners, do we not? I mean at work...That is, if you are going to remain City Coroner? I…. uh... today I heard you received your medical license. I assume you’ve been considering a position at a hospital?”

Looking down at the table, she just stared at the coffee tray. His skin felt hot when she remained silent. “What I meant was…”

“Yes. I got the letter I have been waiting for.” Laughing lightly, she shook her head. “And, yes...I’d thought of practicing my art on the living, but these past few weeks have shown me that there’s a lot of excitement, and purpose, in doing what we do, and well, if I’d wanted a conventional life, I’d have married one of those insufferable twits my father pushed at me after finishing at Bishop Strachan.” 

“I imagine your debut in Society was quite an event then,” he smiled to show he was just teasing her, still not quite sure what she was saying.

“You have no idea. I snuck off after the introductions to read a book. I didn’t want to be there. My father was upset with me, but still, that was nothing compared to Ruby’s...she was found cavorting with one of the footmen.”

“I believe I may feel sympathy for your father.” He had no trouble imagining the scene.

“Yes, I suppose he does deserve it, but, to answer your question, yes, I will stay on as City Coroner. I’m enthusiastic about putting my skills to good use for an underserved cause, and I look forward to the challenge of modernizing the morgue,” she agreed before adding, “in partnership with you.” She searched his face. “William...You came here tonight to ask me about that?”

She looked so disbelieving; his well-considered speech fled completely from his mind. “Yes...well...I got a letter too...I thought...I...uh...wanted you to know I signed my divorce papers this morning and have sent them to the lawyer. It will take a while, but I will eventually be single again. Julia, I want you to know I do not expect anything from you, I have never engaged in an affair before, but I am an honourable man...I’d have to get an annulment before marrying again, and well…” he prattled on, trying to gauge her reaction.

“Hold your horses! Who said anything about marriage?” Julia interrupted, looking shocked.

His heartbeat somehow closed his throat. “But…” he rasped.

“As for casual relationships, well, I’ve never been particularly good at them myself. In fact, you were supposed to be a fling if I’m honest, but well…” she shrugged. “I find myself interested in something more too. But _marriage_...? You cannot marry and I have no intention to do so any time soon -- sounds perfect to me!” 

He exhaled a deep breath he didn’t even know that he’d been holding. _Could they be on the same page after all?_

Julia gave him a squeeze and a giggle. “You know, the first night we met, I made a bet with Ruby about you.”

He was beginning to love her giggles. “Interesting…I made a bet with myself about you as well. Do you want to tell me what yours was?”

Her eyes studied his face intently. “Um...no. How about you?” She smiled up at him. 

He’d do anything to keep that smile of her face. “Definitely ‘no’,” he said, holding out his hand, inviting her to take it, so pleased when she did. Her gaze was entrancing -- if he wasn’t careful, he was going to get lost in there. 

It felt to him as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice, that moment where there was going to be no going back, where the next breath was going to end everything that came from _before._ _You only live once, William, and life is short._

Taking a deep breath, he decided to take the dive. “Let’s be anarchists, shall we?” he asked.

Julia looked at him quizzically. 

“A wise woman once told me that the heart refuses to be governed,” he grinned as she caught his train of thought. 

“Yes, I believe I would love to engage in some mayhem with you.” _That smile again…_ he felt so lifted when he saw it.

She giggled, running one finger along his jaw then down along his throat, feeling his pulse under her fingertip. Feeling where his heart pumped blood through him, letting him know he was alive. 

“No time like the present,” he murmured as he swept her up and carried her to bed.

**-THE END -**

*********

**Dear Reader: Please comment/review/like/ vote and Kudo!!**

**Thank you so much for reading our book! We gave you a mystery, an adventure and a romance -- all interwoven together. We wrote it over about 15 months and three continents, from the middle of the Adirondacks with no internet, to the Far East. Writing is a ‘lonely’ process in some ways, because the writer never knows if there is any audience for what we come up with and have spent our time creating for you. We are so happy you followed along. We really hope you enjoyed it. Please tell us how you think we did. We appreciate your feedback and comments -- because you, the Reader, have encouraged us both to keep writing with your reviews and support. Let us know what you liked, what you hated, what you want more of -- or just say “Hi.”**

**Thank yous:**

**FallenBelle wants to thank Big Red and Little Guy for their patience and encouragement. She also wants to thank RuthieGreen for her extraordinary patience as FB worked, parented, homeschooled, and moved across the world during a pandemic. She truly has the patience of a saint.**

**RuthieGreen wants to thank FallenBelle for such a great adventure. It has been a priceless gift to have this partnership with you -- I cannot thank you enough! Bless you! Also thanks to “Big Red'' and the Little Guy for sharing her with me for more than a year. Also, Ruthie wants to thank: “Dutch” for read-throughs and patience; “46-Her” for suggesting we needed to use Ruby more centrally; RomanticNerd for getting me unstuck with the beginning of the story & all her stalwart encouragement; IdBeDelighted for initial feedback and advice. Thanks to Lovemondays for ‘your’ character & JH for her shout-out. Thank you Maureen Jennings, Peter Mitchell and the show writers -- please keep ‘em coming! **

**Authors’ Notes:**

We made a lot of things up BUT we tried to fit our story into actual Toronto and Niagara Frontier/Peninsula places, with actual people and events. We time-shifted a few things here or there for the sake of the story. Our original inspiration came from two things: **Chaucer’s** **_The Pardoner’s Tale_ ** **and** **_The Poisoner’s Handbook,_ ** **by Deborah Blum.**

The internet is a wonderful thing: There really was one weekend where **44 people died from a batch of poisoned bootleg booze** \-- from Rochester to Toronto (according to the wiki).

Poisonings were not only the #1 cause of death but were a larger number of deaths than shootings, stabbings, beatings and falls combined. There were enough lethal chemicals in most people's houses to kill the neighborhood a couple of times over. 

**Prohibition laws in the US and Canada** had a lot of ‘get arounds’ including getting a prescription from a doctor for your daily rum ration or consuming a ‘medicine’ which was primarily alcohol (cough syrup back in the day -- over the counter flu meds today.) Rich people hoarded alcohol for their own use. It was illegal to make alcohol and sell it, but people did make their own by fermenting whatever was handy for personal consumption -- hence the term ‘bathtub gin.’

 **Bootlegging was a thing** \-- because the US border was so close and lots of illegal booze flowed from Canada to New York. Rocco Perri was the 1# bootlegger. He stole legit alcohol and/or redistilled it to remove poisonous adulterants. He was eventually convicted for diverting alcohol from Gooderham and Worts. We changed a few things but used him and his story for part of ours. 

According to Wikipedia: In 1918, **Rocco Perri** began an affair with **Sarah Olive Routledge** , with whom he had two daughters; Autumn (born in 1919), and Catherine (born in 1921). After Autumn was born, Perri had refused to marry Routledge, but he did maintain a home for her in St. Catharines and paid child support. Their affair resumed in 1920. Perri's job as a macaroni salesman required travel across Ontario; he also used those trips to arrange the sale of [ liquor ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liquor) . Bessie Starkman, busy running the finances for their organization, did not question Perri's outings. In February 1922, Routledge was falsely told by Perri's lawyer that he was already married to Starkman. Despondent, Routledge committed [ suicide ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suicide) by jumping from her lawyer's seventh-story office window of the [ Bank of Hamilton ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bank_of_Hamilton); her parents took custody of their children. In the 1930s, Perri asked to see his daughters on weekends, although their grandmother would always accompany them for fear that he would take them. (We altered some details for our story.)

 **The Leaside Munitions Factory/Canada Wire** , **Gooderham & Worts ** & the layout and the denaturing building(s), **St. Mark’s in Hamilton** , **St. Paul’s in Toronto** , **Union Station** , the location of the train Station in Hamilton, the **Royal Distillery in Hamilto** n -- are all real places we have faithfully used (well, we did add a room to St. Mark’s) as they were in 1922. Prudence Carter’s house is based on the **Scottish Rite in Hamilton** , which was owned by a tobacco magnate when it was a private home. 

We had a really, really good time looking up -- and looking at -- women’s clothing, jewelry, shoes, purses, hairstyles, men’s suits, motorcars and motorcycles, vintage maps, art and music. 

RG has a box full of sheet music from the 20’s -- had to use that! That is where we got the music-references from. **Alex Trebek** (who was Canadian) passed away while we were writing, so George had to invent **_Jeopardy_ **, of course. 

**Hemingway** wrote for the **_Toronto Star_ ** ; he even wrote about the practice of renting, rather than buying, art. According to Graeme Bayliss in the 3/7/12 Torontoist, Hemmingway said this about the constabulary: “Now the reason that Chicago is crime-ridden and Toronto is not, lies in the police forces of the two cities. Toronto has a force that for organization, effectiveness and esprit de corps is excelled nowhere in the world.” He was also quoted as Ontario being the most protestant of places and “Of Torontonians he wrote, “We have come to the right place to have a baby because that is the specialite de ville. They don’t do anything else.” Hemingway was bored, sober, and surrounded by Protestants. Worse still, he was despised by his new editor at the _Daily Star_

 **Mr. Blackburn** did run, and lose, for control board, and Alderman Birdsall existed. Charles A. Maguire was Mayor and Samuel Dickenson was Chief Constable. Toronto and Ontario was about to go through the Ontario Bond Scandal, revealing deep corruption, in just a few months. 

The **Jumping Horse** show was a real entertainment-- imagine a 60 foot plunge, horse and rider--yikes! 

Putting a baby in the hayloft over the horses to get the fumes was a cure for **cholera** \-- yikes! Putting tubes into corpses and burning off the gases so the putrefaction does not accumulate (or let the corpses explode) we saw on the Alienist -- too good not to use! 

There was **looting in WW1** \-- not the extent of it by the Nazi’s in WW2 -- but we built a story around that, too. We went to museums, took descriptions of WW1 nurses, doctors, trench warfare etc, the Spanish Flu pandemic, instruments of war and used them in our story. **The Spanish flu** did leave some people unable to see colours correctly. We found the list of **Toronto police station** houses and the men who died in the war. Station House No. 9 was hit the hardest -- oddly, we could not find a plaque or monument to them -- if you know where it is, let us know. 

After WW1 and the pandemic, there was in fact a dearth of men, leaving many women with no marriage prospects. Many women, though, felt liberated, having obtained the vote, shed their corsets and been doing men’s jobs while the men were at war -- not quite to the extent after WW2, but close. One little thing we fudged: Liza could not have taught school as a married woman -- we imagined she conveniently forgot to mention her marriage when applying for the job. The photograph of William and Liza is based on one of RG’s maternal grandparents just before her grandfather went to war. We did not want to re-write Maureen Jennings’ book -- the only thing we stole was a reference to “Sweet Cap” cigarettes. 


End file.
